Vita, Dulcedo, Spes
by ericajanebarry
Summary: Life, Sweetness, Hope. Glimpses into the lives, loves and friendships of four favorite characters: Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes Carson, Isobel Crawley and Richard Clarkson. AU for married Richobel and some slight divergence from canon timeline.
1. I

**A/N: A new adventure. For those who don't know, I've been writing Richobel for three months. I just wrapped up my flagship fic and was eager to take on a new challenge. You see, I'm a dual shipper, but I had yet to write any Chelsie. This is my first attempt, so please be gentle with me!**

 **The inspiration for this fic was taken from an old "50 Words, 1 Sentence" prompt I stumbled upon. Brevity is not among my strengths as a writer, so I've chosen 50 words at random and will be writing a vignette for each that captures a moment from the perspective of Charles, Elsie, Richard, Isobel or some combination thereof. I plan to post chapters comprised of five vignettes at a time.**

 **Tremendous thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for beta and brenna-louise for the enthusiastic flails over my previews. :)**

 **Enjoy, and please leave a little review if you've the time. Feedback is my greatest teacher!**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **1\. Chord**

It's a different tune Isobel plays these days. Gone are the days of dissonant chords, of mournful hymns. A little more than two years since Matthew's death and it still aches, but only sometimes. And tonight is not one of those times.

She sits at the piano this New Year's Eve, beaming as Elsie's lovely voice rings out.

 _For auld lang syne, my jo  
_ _For auld lang syne  
_ _We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet  
_ _For auld lang syne_

Behind them, Charles and Richard share a knowing look across the sitting room, which is filled with the ones most dear to them. Anna and John are here, their newborn son asleep on Charles' shoulder. Tom's arms are full of a very drowsy Sybbie, who pleaded for permission to stay awake to hear her Nana Bel play and Auntie Essie sing. Mary is perched on the hearth, glancing down at George with a smirk. He has curled up with MacTavish, his grandparents' beagle, and is now fast asleep, his thumb planted firmly between his lips.

The last note resonates, Isobel and Elsie clasp hands and share a smile, and the guests applaud. Charles relinquishes little William John Bates to his father, but not before dropping a kiss on the infant's downy head. Elsie passes by them and gives his forearm a squeeze. Their eyes meet and Charles is overwhelmed by the love he sees in the depths of hers.

Richard and Isobel are keeping the grandchildren tonight, and Sybbie asks that Auntie Essie tuck her in. Tom kisses the little girl good night and Elsie takes her by the hand into the nursery. Isobel picks up George, rousing him to receive a kiss from his mother, and follows behind. The children are changed into pajamas and tucked into bed. Just as Isobel and Elsie turn to leave, Sybbie's sweet voice can be heard.

"Auntie Essie, sing me that song again … please?"

Elsie glances at Isobel, who nods. "I'll tell Charles you'll be along in a moment," she says as she leaves the room.

Songs sung, children asleep, and the younger adults seen off, Charles and Elsie sit next to one another on the settee, fingers entwined. Richard occupies the adjacent armchair, Isobel in his lap. They sip sherry and reminisce about the year they've had. It has been a year of firsts: the first full year of Isobel and Richard's retirement, of Charles and Elsie's marriage. The Clarksons now have a new cause, the Downton Historical Society, and the Carsons a new grandchild. Moreover, the year has seen a friendship that had begun as camaraderie between the two women grow to include their husbands as well.

It is Charles who gives voice to the unanimous thought on the minds of all four.

"It's been a good year." It's brilliantly understated in that characteristic manner of his, and it earns him bright smiles all around.

"Hear, hear," Richard agrees, raising his glass. The others follow, glasses clinking as the toast is raised.

A very good year indeed.

 **2\. Uniform**

The heat is oppressive as Elsie and Isobel sit under the canopy sipping water with lemon and fanning themselves. The house team is fielding and the game is well into its fifth hour. They're here to support Charles and Richard, both of whom play for the house now that Richard's retired, but neither woman has been following the match since around the time the second innings began. Try as they may, neither understands all the intricacies of the game. But they sit and they watch and they smile, cheering when appropriate and waving to the men when they catch their eyes.

Elsie sighs, raising her glass to her lips. "We may require something a touch stronger if they don't wrap it up in short order!"

Isobel laughs, nodding her head. "Indeed. Remind me why we come to these things again?"

"Now, now, you know very well why," Elsie pretends to chide, a hint of mischief in her eyes as she smiles.

It's Isobel's turn to sigh, pressing the cold glass against her cheek. "We fools can't seem to resist the sight of our men in uniform." She rolls her eyes as she says it, and the gesture is so very _Richard_ that Elsie can't help but giggle.

The match rolls on and the women lose themselves in their thoughts.

Elsie will never forget the first time she laid eyes upon Charles. She was newly arrived from Argyll, fresh-faced and wide-eyed at the prospect of working in the grand house. He was first footman then, assigned by the butler to show the new housemaid the ropes. His demeanor was much then as it is now: taciturn, reserved, as buttoned-up as his livery. Beneath the surface there was so much more to the man, and Elsie had seen it from the start, little chinks in his armor with the passage of time; glimpses, however fleeting, at the tender heart of the man beneath the gruff exterior.

 _Oh_ , but was he dashing in that livery! Years passed and with his rise to the position of butler came a new uniform, the one she watches him don each day now. She smiles impishly. It's the satisfied smile of a woman who has exclusive knowledge of what lies beneath the starched collars and high-waisted trousers, a mystery revealed after decades of wondering.

The look is not lost on her friend. "Elsie Carson, whither might your mind have wandered?" Isobel teases. As Elsie looks at the other woman she can see the telltale sign of flushed cheeks that likely result from more than simply the heat.

"I believe this is a case of the pot calling the kettle 'black,' my friend," Elsie banters back.

Elsie isn't wrong, and Isobel covers her eyes momentarily in feigned abashedness.

"We don't see much of uniforms these days," Isobel offers sheepishly.

 _Richard was wearing his lab coat the first time she met him. She was struck by the contrast … the stark white of the coat and of his hair versus the piercing blue of his eyes, the warmth of his brogue. Those eyes, those eyes. They saw straight through her, right from the outset._

 _The war years were a test of their resolve, with days beginning long before sunrise and lasting well into the wee hours. Day after day they moved with precision from bed to bed, she in her nursing greys and he in full dress. She remembers with a flush of heat the way she used to imagine running her fingertips over his insignia, dreaming of asking him how and where each was earned._

 _It's her turn to smile. She knows now. Each stripe, every emblem and the significance of them all. In halting whispers, he shared those stories. With gentle fingers she has mapped the scars earned alongside those accolades, has blessed them with her lips and is intimately acquainted with the quiet strength of the man behind the façade._

 **3\. Hold**

Richard likes it best when he catches Isobel off guard. Stepping up behind her, pulling her back against his chest, settling his hands on her hips. He marvels at the fit of them in spite of the similarities in their stature. Her shoulder, particularly the delicate curve where it meets her neck, was made for him, perfectly shaped to accommodate his chin as it rests there, his lips as they meet tender skin.

She is lithe and trim, built almost like an athlete, he thinks, and yet the roundness of her bottom is the perfect complement to the sharpness of his hipbones. She's softness and warmth, and the half-sigh, half-moan her lips emit as his arms come around her is the sweetest sound his ears have ever heard. She presses back against him, looking at him over her shoulder from beneath long, dark lashes with eyes that speak of love and gratitude, desire and challenge. He has met his match in her; she who runs hot and cold, speaks without thinking and whose wit is sharper than the blade of a scalpel. But beneath all her sharp edges there's a heart that seeks out and finds the best in humanity, arms that easily embrace "the least of these," and a hope that blazes through darkness like the sun burning off the early morning fog.

For Isobel, it's lying along the length of his body, every inch of their skin touching as she pillows her head on his chest, soothed by his heartbeat, sure and steady, resounding like a drum beneath her ear. His practiced hands are ever in motion, counting her vertebrae (she hears him whispering the names of each under his breath when he thinks she's asleep) and moving from pulse point to pulse point. She is addicted to the way he can't stop touching her, and as she recollects the past she realizes there were inklings of it stretching as far back as their history goes. He was always there, the hand at the small of her back as she preceded him through doorways, the fingertips brushing against hers as they shared a cup of tea at the end of a long shift. His were the arms that held her in the depths of her dread, anchoring her to life and light when darkness swirled all around; his were the arms that held her delicately when she began to come awake again, setting her firmly upon solid ground once more.

 **oOo**

Charles is still astonished by how diminutive Elsie is when she's in his arms. _Why, she's positively tiny,_ he thinks with amusement as he smoothes a hand down her back, over the curve of her hip. In all the years they've worked alongside one another, he has never characterized her that way. On the contrary, she is a force to be reckoned with as she walks the corridors of the Abbey, her chatelaine jangling in time with the precise _click, click, click_ of her heels. While he is quick to reprimand the staff when he overhears them disparaging "the Scottish Dragon," he can understand the connotation of a larger-than-life presence associated with the housekeeper.

But while she is most definitely feisty and unafraid to speak her mind when it's called for, _his Elsie_ is gentle, and he thinks the press of her small hand over his heart is the closest he has ever come to touching heaven. And as she gazes up into his eyes he can see it all without her needing to speak a word.

 _Charlie, you were worth waiting a lifetime for._

Elsie had longed for the feeling of arms around her in the night for more years than she cared to count. After she came to Downton that desire became more intense, more focused. She chided herself for having _those thoughts_ about a colleague, for one thing _('It's altogether improper')_ and her superior for another _('Are you mad, woman? Are you_ _ **asking**_ _to be sacked?!')_. Until that day in the corridor outside his pantry when he'd learned that her cancer scare was, in fact, just that - _a scare_ \- and she'd overheard him singing in relief. That was the moment she had begun to suspect that her feelings for him were returned; the day she stopped shaming herself for dreaming of a life and a future with him.

She smiles now, as he shifts in his sleep and his arms tighten around her. While the dreams were fantastical, carrying her through many a restless night, they pale in comparison to reality. How could she have known about the way his warm palm totally covers her abdomen, or about the pleasant shivers that run the length of her spine in response? Indeed, she was wholly ignorant then of the way that he, in slumber, manages to wrap all four limbs securely about her, effectively imprisoning her in his embrace. It's the sweetest kind of captivity, and in these moments she wills time to stop, longing to feel this way - _safe, desired, cherished_ \- forever.

 **4\. House**

Elsie and Charles sit next to one another on the bench by the front garden. The sun is setting and they sip tea, their legs covered by an afghan to ward off the chill of evening. He smoothes back an errant lock of her hair and her fingers wander absentmindedly to the nape of his neck, kneading the muscles there.

"Penny for them, Els," he says tenderly.

"Hmm?" She turns to look at him, struck by the intensity of his dark eyes.

"You were rather far away just now, love. Are you quite all right?"

"Oh, aye," she responds, fingertips smoothing the furrow of his brow. "Only I was thinking that I've never told you how sorry I am for doubting your motivation when you asked me to invest in a property with you." She looks away for a moment, thoughtful, before her eyes meet his again. "I _am_ sorry, Charles. You'd not spoken of your feelings at that point, but I knew."

He raises her hand to his lips, kisses the back of it. "You may well have known, but it can't have helped that I kept my … my _feelings_ hidden for so very long. But it's no matter now, is it? We got there in the end."

She smiles at him, her heart so full of love that laughter bubbles up from deep within her soul. She throws her head back and gives in to it, and as he watches her he cannot help it. Her joy is contagious and his shoulders begin to shake as he laughs along with her.

"Och," she sighs, wiping away the tears that have formed in the corners of her eyes. "I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard I cried!" She leans into him and he presses a kiss to her temple. "We got there in the end," she echoes. "We did indeed."

She shivers then, and he puts an arm around her shoulders. "Perhaps we should move this inside, love. Wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

She grins at him and her eyes sparkle. "What are you suggesting, Mr. Carson?"

He reaches out to brush the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip and it's as if he's attempting to capture her smile. He cups her chin in his hand and leans in, pressing his lips to hers gently. "Well, I thought we'd begin by cuddling on the sofa in front of the fire …" He trails off momentarily, kissing her once more. "And then perhaps …" He whispers the remaining details into her ear and she laughs mirthfully once again, reaching a hand up to smooth back that unruly curl of his that insists upon falling out of place. It's one of the myriad details of life with him that she treasures, one that she'll never tire of.

She stands and takes his hand as they make to move inside. "Why Mr. Carson," she says, eyes dancing in the moonlight, "It's about time you and I live a little!"

 **5\. Wreck**

Their friendship had begun in earnest following the war, when they'd both taken an interest in Ethel Parks. Together they had plotted ways of helping the young mother to secure employment, of convincing the parents of the late Major Bryant to take an interest in their grandson. Isobel had admired Elsie's compassion for the young woman despite the ill-advised choices she made. Elsie was taken aback by Isobel's tenacity, her insistence upon seeing Ethel through the anguish of giving up her son so that he would have a chance at a real life, not one lived in poverty and shadow. The situation had broken both women's hearts, and they'd turned to one another in their disillusionment and had each, in so doing, found an ally.

The camaraderie between them is organic. They come at life from similar viewpoints. _Look for the best in others. Help those who cannot help themselves. Never give up hope._ Elsie is revered by her underlings - everyone's confidante, but the truth is that her position, both in the hierarchy of service and in the social strata, makes forming friendships difficult. Isobel sees herself as existing on the fringes, a notion that perturbed Elsie initially, but one with which she has since come to sympathize. What impresses Elsie most about Isobel stems from the fact that she can operate comfortably in both the middle and upper classes. Isobel is most comfortable around _real_ people, those who make no pretenses about who they truly are, who possess integrity regardless of their social standing.

Their friendship works, Elsie thinks, because Isobel reaches across the divisions created by society. In addition to being bold and outspoken, she is simply _good_ and _kind_ to all. She is not a ladyship and eschews her association with the aristocracy. She is well and truly at _home_ in the quaint cottage she shares with her husband. But at the same time the Granthams are her family, and they've been good to her. Isobel has helped Elsie to see redeeming qualities in them where she might not have otherwise.

Their friendship works, Isobel thinks, because Elsie can see her for who she really is. There's a touch more stillness in Elsie's soul than there is in Isobel's own, and because of this Elsie has a knack for reading people, for getting a bead on their motivations by keen observation. They know one another well enough by now that Elsie isn't afraid to give it to her straight when she thinks Isobel is in the wrong.

That's precisely what Elsie did when Isobel and Richard had their first falling out as newlyweds. Isobel had left home in a huff when Richard could not accept the Granthams' attempts to make him feel like a member of the family. Elsie sat Isobel down over tea and explained, from a perspective very similar to Richard's, that his acceptance was not going to come overnight; that it may not come _at all_ if Isobel did not take a step back and allow her husband to move at his own pace. Isobel will ever credit Elsie with saving her from making a complete wreck of the marriage that had been such a long time coming.

And Isobel's encouragement was instrumental in Elsie's decision, on that day at the seaside, to offer Charles a steadying hand. Elsie had watched Isobel blossom in Richard's care and had listened when her friend charged her not to miss out on the sweet surprise that was love in this season of life. Isobel had asked Elsie what it was that she loved best about Charles, and when Elsie had answered that it was Charles' steadfastness, his adherence to tradition and sense of right and wrong that grounded her, Isobel had rightly ascertained that Charles may be looking for that same steadiness from Elsie before he could begin to consider that his feelings for her were worth risking his heart for. That moment by the seaside changed the course of Charles and Elsie's lives forever, and Elsie will always credit Isobel with inspiring her to action.


	2. II

**A/N: Hello again, lovely readers! Thank you ever so kindly for the reviews, favs and follows! I am grateful for each and every one of you!**

 **Here we have the second installment in my "50 words" challenge. This format is both fun and - here I go repeating myself - _challenging_ \- lol. I'd say that the obstacles that presented themselves this week (ahem ... three sick children, ages 8, 6 and 4, and the lack of sleep and magnitude of laundry that followed) are the reason it's been a full week since the first chapter. But in truth, this is probably about the pace you can expect from me. **

**Specific thanks to my lovely and gracious beta, ChelsieSouloftheAbbey. I'm still just so pleased and grateful that you've come alongside me, my friend. To brenna-louise, Number 10 is taken right from your suggestions. Thank you ever so much for finding that lovely quote of Elsie's for me! To kouw for encouragement in matters both related and unrelated to writing. And to my Richobel girls for following me over ... solidarity, sisters!**

 **If you've followed me for any length of time, you'll probably have noticed that musical references pop up over and over again in my writing. Perhaps I'll put together a playlist for this fic, but in the meantime, the songs mentioned herein are "If You Were the Only Girl (In the World)" by Nat D. Ayer and Clifford Grey and "Long, Long Ago" by Thomas Haynes Bayly.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **6\. Seven**

By summertime, little William Bates is old enough to be away from his mother for a short while. Anna and John have gone into York for the afternoon and Charles and Elsie are only too happy to keep their grandson. Sybbie and George are staying with Richard and Isobel while their parents are in London on estate business, and it's a party of seven at the Clarksons' cottage today.

William is an accomplished crawler now, and his mission is clear: he wants _off_ the quilt upon which his grandmother has sat him. He can see Sybbie and George running across the yard and cannot imagine why he isn't permitted to join them.

Elsie and Charles have taken up positions at opposite ends of the quilt. Each time William attempts to make an escape the nearest adult catches him and sets him back in the center with his stuffed bear and his blanket. Before long he begins to see it as a game. _Suppose I crawl in Granny's direction. What will she do?_ He tries it. Elsie is wise.

"William," she says indulgently, "you're a determined one, aren't ye? That's both your ma and your da coming through!" She scoops him up, lays him across her knees and peppers his belly with kisses until he squeals with delight.

Next it's Granddaddy's turn, and as William approaches Charles raises an eyebrow, affecting the "stoic butler." Elsie presses her hand to her mouth to suppress a chuckle. Charles lies back on the quilt and William crawls up onto him, gumming his grandfather's chin. Charles' eyes go wide at the wet surprise and Elsie can't contain herself, collapsing in a fit of giggles. Charles lifts William into the air, holding him there as, once more, the baby's laughter rings out.

"Charles," Elsie scolds, "for pity's sake don't rile him up like that!" The sparkle in her eyes betrays her. While there's truth to her words it's the banter she's aiming for.

He does not disappoint. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head but all the while he's grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Now, Elsie, the boy's a Bates! He's made of stern stuff!" The two look at one another and their shared gaze speaks what words fail to capture.

 **oOo**

Later in the afternoon, William and George are napping. Sybbie is five now and considers herself past all that, so she sits at the kitchen table and sips tea with her Nana Bel and Aunt Elsie. She's already a brilliant reader, and she regards the tea tin with interest.

"C-A-F-E." She puzzles over the word for a moment. "Nana Bel, I don't know that one."

Isobel can't suppress a look of grandmotherly pride. "That's because it's not an English word, Sybbie," she explains. "It's _café,_ and it's French. It's like a small restaurant where you can go for tea."

Sybbie nods, all seriousness. "French," she whispers, and then she continues. "Harro—" She gets stuck again.

"Harrogate," Elsie whispers with a wink.

"Harrogate, Yorkshire," she finishes, promptly jumping down from her chair and approaching Isobel.

She puts her hands on her grandmother's knees. "Nana, can you make my hair look like Auntie Essie's?"

The women smile at one another. "Sybbie, love, what you can't see is that Aunt Elsie's hair is very long when it's not pinned up. Yours would need to grow quite a bit before we could style it just like that. But if you'll run and fetch the brush from Nana's vanity, I'm sure we can come up with something lovely, all right?" She bends down for a kiss and receives a hug as well before Sybbie dashes off in search of the hairbrush.

"My word, but she idolizes us," Elsie remarks.

Isobel nods. "Her mother would be _so proud_ of the fine girl she's become."

 **oOo**

It's evening, and Richard and Charles are out in the yard with Sybbie and George. The children have asked to sleep outside tonight and the men have agreed, though both have their suspicions that the novelty will wear off long before morning.

They begin with a search for glow worms - careful to avoid the rosebushes - and turn up exactly ten of them. Richard places them in a jar with holes punched in the lid. "We must be very gentle with them," he explains. "You may feel very small in comparison to adults, but to these wee glow worms you two look like giants!"

George regards his grandfather with an incredulous look. At nearly three, he feels anything but giant.

"Aye, even you, George," Richard affirms with a wink, ruffling the boy's hair. He continues. "You and Sybbie and Uncle Charles and I … we have bones inside our bodies that protect us from harm, but our friends here, they do not. So we mustn't handle them too much, but we can look at them all we want."

"But we can _handle_ you and Uncle Charlie, can't we, Granddad?" asks Sybbie, wrapping her arms around Charles' neck as if to illustrate her point.

"You may _always_ do that," Richard answers with a grin as he kisses her cheek.

The children are tiring out, and now the four of them are lying on the quilt, listening as Charles points out the constellations. He shows them Orion, the hunter, Ursa Major, the big bear, and Ursa Minor, the little bear. As he finishes, Richard indicates that George has fallen asleep in his arms and when Charles looks down he sees that Sybbie's done the same.

"Let's take them inside," Richard whispers. Charles nods, and as the men carry the children into the nursery they catch the eyes of their wives. The look shared among them says all that words cannot.

 _This is the life we've always dreamed of. These are the moments we must savor._

 **7\. Question**

It's Charles and Elsie's afternoon off, and lately she's been taking tea with Isobel while he and Richard play one game or another. It works out brilliantly for all involved. Elsie and Isobel have the gift of gab. They are the types who think as they speak, and as they do so they manage to remedy all the world's ills, all the while enjoying one another's company. And Charles and Richard are both inclined to think ... and ponder … and _brood_ (their wives insist it's what they do despite their protestations), and it's a comfort to be quiet in one another's presence with implicit understanding that all is well.

Today the game is gin, and while companionable silence is a hallmark of their time together it's blatantly obvious to Richard that Charles is preoccupied. He's simply going through the motions, drawing and discarding without his standard commentary about the hand he holds. When Richard goes gin and Charles barely notices, he knows it's time to say something.

"Alright man, out with it. What's the trouble?" They're drinking single malt and Charles has finished off his first. Richard nods toward Charles' glass. "Pour you another?"

Charles nods tightly. "Please." He rolls his neck and it pops audibly.

Richard doesn't miss this and lets slip an observant, "Hmm." He refills Charles' glass and sets it in front of him.

"Thank you," Charles says. He pauses for a moment, raises an inquisitive eyebrow and asks the question. "How did you know when the time was right to retire?"

Suddenly it all makes sense to Richard, and he remembers his own struggle with the same decision not long ago. Knowing Charles as he does, and understanding the similarities between them, Richard is keenly aware that his friend is a man of tradition who places a high value upon hard work; that his occupation defines him in many ways. He thinks for a while before answering, as this is not a matter to be taken lightly.

"To be quite honest, it was a decision that made itself. After the wedding, both Isobel and I planned to go on working indefinitely. But I'd married her in order that we should be _together,_ and almost immediately our schedules began to separate us." He pauses, looking thoughtful. "Can I assume, since you're asking, that you and Elsie are in a similar situation?

Charles nods. "We work side by side but we can't seem to set off for home at the same time." He furrows his brow and thinks for a moment. "And there's certainly no place for interactions of a … _personal_ nature at the Abbey." At this Richard rolls his eyes in understanding and both men chuckle.

"It's much as you said … I married Elsie in order to _be with her,_ and while she's not said a word in protest I can see the separation is wearing on her as well."

"I see," says Richard. "Isobel was the one to broach the subject, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you that I was not receptive at first. I worked every day of my life for forty years; I wasn't about to go gently into _that_ good night. But the more I considered her words, I couldn't deny that it simply made sense. Once I knew Isobel's love, my work didn't hold the same fascination any longer. And it helped that in all my years alone I never spent but a fraction of what I earned, so there was no _need_ to continue."

"It's much the same in our case," Charles replies. "I've plenty saved ... enough to care for Elsie's sister in addition to providing for the two of us indefinitely. I always assumed I would work until the day I died, but since Elsie and I have been together I find my allegiance to the Crawley family is no match for my desire to make her happy. It's all rather unsettling, as you know."

"I do," Richard agrees. "It's a blow to the ego to give up one's livelihood. You've got to weigh the costs. Is it worth your pride to sacrifice making memories with the love you've waited a lifetime for?"

Charles grins. "Well, consider me appropriately chastened." The men share a laugh. "Elsie's love is worth any sacrifice. I see your point. There's no question as to the right decision when you put it that way."

Richard nods, clapping him on the back. "Then you know what you must do. It's not going to be easy, but I can assure you that you'll not regret it."

 **8\. Musician**

The first time it happened, he had no idea she'd heard. Elsie had learned, after months of turmoil, that she did not have cancer. Though he'd acquired the knowledge of her clean bill of health from Mrs. Patmore and not from the housekeeper herself, it was an understatement to say that he was relieved. Elated was closer to the truth and, in a moment of exuberance, he'd called up a tune from his past.

 _Dashing away with a smoothing iron  
_ _Dashing away with a smoothing iron  
_ _Dashing away with a smoothing iron … she stole my heart away_

If he had burst into song, then she had burst into tears standing there in the corridor outside his pantry. They were tears of relief, certainly. No longer need she entertain thoughts of her impending mortality. No, indeed … death was the farthest thing from her mind in that instant, as tears of joy streamed down her face. She had loved him for years by then, but never had she dared to dream that her feelings would be returned.

 _Could it be?_ She'd wondered, and the seeds of hope had been sown. _Could he … love me?_

 **oOo**

The second time it happened, he had thought she was out of earshot. He stood before the mirror, his face covered in shaving cream. It was a quiet Sunday at home, just he and Elsie and nowhere to be. As he thought about the day that lay ahead of them, the _flick, flick, flick_ of his razor put him in mind of a song.

 _A garden of Eden just made for two  
_ _With nothing to mar our joy  
_ _I would say such wonderful things to you  
_ _There would be such wonderful things to do  
_ _If you were the only girl in the world  
_ _And I were the only boy_

Just then he heard the floorboards creak in the bedroom. He turned around to find Elsie, who had come up to fetch her knitting from the bedside where she'd left it the night before. By the expression on her face he knew that she'd heard him.

"Elsie, I—," he stammered, his cheeks flushing beet red.

"Charles, I—," she said at the same time. She willed him to look into her eyes and he saw the smile in them. The tension went out of his shoulders as she set her knitting down and approached him, taking his hands. He looked down and she caught his chin in her hand.

"It was beautiful, Charles. Please don't be ashamed. I am your wife. I love you. Your secrets are safe with me."

 **oOo**

This time he knows she hears him. They've been retired for all of a week and already he's begun to sleep the sleep of the dead. No more of rising to the shrill, arresting ring of the alarm clock for him. Elsie, on the other hand, is having difficulty retraining her body to understand that she can lie in.

Dawn is just breaking and Charles isn't likely to stir for a couple hours more. Elsie finds herself wide awake with naught to do but lie there, as it's too dark to read or knit. She thinks of her sister, wonders whether Becky is asleep now. Writing is out at the moment, so she composes a letter in her head. But when she finishes, she's still no closer to sleep, and so she turns on her side, snuggling against the solid warmth of her husband. With her hand resting on his rib cage she can feel his rhythmic breaths and they ought to soothe her, but they merely serve to remind her that she's awake and has no desire to be.

She sighs and rolls over again, turning away from him. He follows, curling his body around hers from behind. His hand on her belly is warm and his voice causes vibrations where his chest meets her back.

"Elsie, love, are you well?"

She nods. "I'm fine, but I've not yet learned how to sleep past half four. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"Hush, now," he says softly. "Are you comfortable?"

She nods again. "I am now."

"Good. Now let's see if this helps."

Before she can ask what he means, he begins to sing to her.

 _Do you remember the paths where we met?  
Long, long ago, long, long ago.  
Ah, yes, you told me you'd never forget,  
Long, long ago, long ago.  
Then to all others, my smile you preferred,  
Love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word.  
Still my heart treasures the phrases I heard,  
Long, long ago, long ago_.

As he concludes, his ears register the heavy, steady breaths that tell him her body _and her mind_ are at rest.

 **9\. Striking**

It had been the first word that had come to mind when she met him. Isobel had called in at the hospital in order to learn how it was run and to meet the patients, the people of her new village. And she had come away inspired, her soul encouraged by what she had found.

But what resonated with her most - what she remembers to this day about her first visit to Downton Cottage Hospital, were the strikingly blue eyes of the doctor. He had looked at her with kindness and curiosity when they were introduced, with admiration when she'd asked to borrow his stethoscope to listen to the heart and lungs of the dropsy patient. He'd regarded her with incredulity bordering on anger when she had fairly demanded that they ( _ **they?**_ _Who did she think she was?)_ inject adrenaline into the farmer's heart, and with disbelief when the treatment worked and the patient began to show immediate signs of improvement.

She smiles fondly as she looks back now. Richard is a man of few words, emotionally guarded and composed. The world sees the calm, professionally personable exterior, his eyes placid and reassuring. And he _is_ all those things, or he can be. But she saw through the outward appearance from the moment she laid eyes on him. She had watched all those emotions pass across his eyes and had intuited the truth in an instant. _There is more to this book than its cover._

She saw the devastation in his eyes when he delivered the news of Matthew's death, the surprise when she had begged him to take her away from Crawley House. Her memory grows hazy at that point - tragedy tends to have that effect upon a person. What she does recall is his constant, steadfast presence, and the fact that as she began to come alive once more it was his eyes into which she had gazed … and had found in them hope, and something else as well. Something both of them had hinted at before her world went black, that they'd admitted to in her darkest hours but had necessarily tabled for another time. She saw _love._ His love. For her, and her alone.

She'd glanced at him, standing next to her at the altar, and if he hadn't spoken a word she would still have known the sincerity with which he meant the promises he made to her. His eyes looked almost purple that day, she thought, positioned as he was in the light reflected through the stained glass windows. Purple for fidelity, dignity and admiration.

She sees the substance and the depth of his devotion each time she looks into those piercing blues of his now. She also has the good fortune to witness the way they lighten in hue and dance when he teases her. And now that her mourning has passed, they spend a great deal of time teasing one another. Few would guess it about him, but it was Richard who taught her how to laugh at herself again.

She watches, her heart threatening to burst, as he frolics with their grandchildren, sees the deep blue of _pride_ in his eyes as George catches a ball for the very first time and Sybbie tells him the Latin names of all the wildflowers in her hand. His eyes are tender, almost indigo, as he gathers a child under each arm and reads to them from _The Story of Dr. Dolittle._

But her favorite shade, the one more sacred than all the rest, is the midnight blue-black that only she sees. Whether snuggled by the fire in the evening, or as she wakes and rolls toward him in the morning, or even across a crowded dining table at the Abbey, that look speaks of truths that only they know. In those moments she can hear his heavy brogue though he speaks not a word. _You're beautiful. I love you. I want you._ And she's powerless to resist him … why would she even try? She had for so long believed herself past it - the intense love and singular devotion of a man, being the object of his desire. Being a wife again, a _lover_ again. But he's made her all these things, and not a moment goes by that she doesn't thank God for proving her wrong.

 **10\. Shy**

For Charles' first birthday after the wedding, Elsie thought long and hard about what to do. While she had known him for the better part of three decades, there was so very much about him that she had come to realize she _didn't_ know. There were the silly little idiosyncrasies - the way he snored when he lay on his back and would apologize profusely if she tapped him on the shoulder to let him know, the way he always put his left sock on first and insisted upon making the bed the very second his feet hit the floor each morning.

There were other surprises too. The way he insisted upon sending his uniforms out with those of the rest of the staff for washing, not wanting to burden his new bride with the task of starching the collars _just so._ The fact that he delighted in bringing her fresh flowers from the market every couple of days, sometimes as a centerpiece for their dining table, sometimes to brighten up the desk in her sitting room, often for both. Her own favorite discovery was his love of reading with her by the fire at night as they sipped sherry ( _her_ favorite - his preference was for red wine). As one might suspect they got a great deal of mileage out of Burns and Stevenson, but also the American Robert Frost and (to Elsie's great shock) her favorite, Mary Shelley.

Many of the things she was learning about her husband pointed to his desire to please her, so what could she do to show him that she'd seen his efforts, had received them as the gifts they were and longed to speak the language of his heart just as fluently as he spoke hers?

She'd discussed her perplexity with Isobel and together they had brainstormed gift ideas. Elsie had finally settled upon a bottle of Château Margaux, the 1900 vintage, after Isobel had arranged for her friend to meet directly with Lord Grantham's wine merchant, thus leaving Charles none the wiser. There was a special place in Charles' heart for Margaux, though he'd only ever been fortunate enough to consume what was left after the family had their fill. How fitting, then, that he should have an entire bottle to himself, no matter the expense. Elsie had waited a lifetime to dote on him and if she was going to do it, she was going to do it right!

But what to serve with it? Surely such a fine wine deserved to be paired with a dish of equal delicacy. And therein lay her problem. While she had prepared many of her family's meals back on the farm in Argyll, they had consisted of simple fare, nothing more elaborate than roast game hen and root vegetables. Then there was the fact that, as head housekeeper, there had been little need for her to spend time in the kitchen in years. In the time since she'd married Charles she had gained confidence in her cooking skills - practice makes perfect, after all - but she was no fine chef.

Knowing she was out of her depth, Elsie had turned to Beryl for help. Together they had pored over recipe books, ruling out dish after dish for complexity. Beryl kept suggesting shepherd's pie after Elsie had said it was Charles' favorite, but Elsie insisted it wasn't grand enough.

"Well, fine bloody vintage or no the man will hardly notice if he's half-starved! Haven't you 'eard the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? _That_ man in particular, I should think!" Elsie had swatted her friend's arm playfully in response and they'd shared a chuckle. She finally relented. What better way to speak to his heart than to shower him with his favorites, after all?

On the morning of his birthday they had breakfast at Richard and Isobel's, and afterward Elsie sent Charles off with Richard for the afternoon. Isobel accompanied Elsie to the market for moral support and helped her to select the ingredients for dinner.

"You can do this," Isobel insisted. "And if you get stuck, ring the cottage. Heaven knows I'm well-versed in shepherd's pie thanks to Richard. But you'll be just fine."

Elsie nodded her thanks and embraced her friend before setting off for home. When she arrived she donned her apron, rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The most time-consuming activity was peeling, chopping, and cooking the vegetables. Seasoning the beef-and-lamb mixture was easier than she'd expected and it reduced down nicely. Before she knew it she was placing the dish in the oven to finish and opening the wine to let it breathe. She lit the new taper candles she'd purchased in town and set the table with the china gifted to them by Lord and Lady Grantham on their wedding day.

Richard had promised to have Charles home by seven o'clock and sure enough, in he strode at seven sharp. He was met by his wife, standing by the table with a shy smile on her face.

"Elsie, love," he said incredulously, "what is all this?" He drew her into his arms and kissed her, and when he pulled back she nibbled her lip.

"Happy birthday, Charlie. I made dinner." She borrowed his habit of understating the truth and it had its desired effect as he smiled brightly. "Please," she insisted, "sit."

As he took his seat, the magnitude of what she'd done hit him. "Shepherd's pie? The 1900 Margaux? Elsie, darling, this is too much."

She tutted, hushing him. "Nonsense. I'll not hear a word of it. You've gone well out of your way to demonstrate your love for me and there was no more fitting occasion than this to return the favor. Enjoy it, my dear. You've earned it."

"A delicious dinner prepared by the fair hands of my beautiful wife," he declared, sighing contentedly. "It's a happy birthday indeed."

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading! Would you be so kind as to leave a little review? ;)**


	3. III

**A/N: Hello all! Here is the next installment in my "50 Words" prompt series. I'm going to take them one at a time from this point forward.**

 **Many thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey and Mistressdickens for dissecting this with me. You've both been so incredibly encouraging! And thank you to brenna-louise for moral support from halfway round the world.**

 **Thank you for reading, and if you'd be so good as to leave a review it would make my day. What would you like to see happen in this series? Prompt me, and I'll do my best to incorporate your ideas** **. ;)**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **11\. Limited**

They were bound by limitations for most of their lives. The son of a groom, orphaned at age twelve by the deaths of both parents from influenza, Charles was left with little choice but to enter service at the age of fourteen. He rose steadily through the ranks, becoming butler by the age of 35. But as much as he was respected by the Crawley family, he was not one of them. Nor could he find companionship among the staff who worked under his leadership. He was a man of principle and tradition, implicitly trustworthy and devoted to the family he served and the staff he supervised. But he was a man alone.

A farmer's daughter, Elsie knew the joy of a bountiful harvest - food stores filled to the brim, money to buy new shoes and coats and fabric for new dresses, celebratory barn dances and Da's eyes atwinkle as he reeled with Ma. She was equally well acquainted with the austere years of crops ravaged by drought and disease, foregoing supper so that Becky could eat, endlessly mending threadbare garments. She remained on the farm as long as she could, eventually having to go into service to provide for her sister's care. She parlayed her lifetime of domestic skills into a career as housemaid, turning down Joe Burns' proposal of marriage and leaving home to take the job at Downton Abbey. Eventually rising to the position of housekeeper, she was known for her exacting standards and was highly regarded by the Crawley family for them. Her staff revered her as well, though most thought her formidable _(Did they really think her oblivious to that dreaded moniker?_ She huffed. _The "Scottish Dragon" indeed!)_. Alas, hers was a solitary existence.

Richard was the only son of a doctor, born into a life of neither privilege nor poverty. His father's practice had done well enough, but he'd had to pay for the majority of his schooling when tuberculosis took the elder Clarkson out of work for a year. After he finished medical school, Richard's parents urged him to seek employment in England, where both opportunity and earning potential would be to his advantage. And so he'd left his homeland and his family for the faraway village of Downton. He quickly gained favor among his patients, who were comprised of both lower class and aristocracy, but found he did not fit neatly into the social structure. He loved his job, but knew not a love of his own.

Medicine was in Isobel's blood as well as her heart as the daughter, sister, and wife of Manchester physicians. She knew both the oddity of belonging neither to the upper echelon nor to the working class and the struggle of being born female in a man's world. Her parents gave her the best education they could afford and she excelled at academics. She could have been a doctor, and a brilliant one at that, but women didn't study medicine. And so she became a nurse, following her husband into the first Boer War, then returning home to raise Matthew and keep Reginald's practice afloat when he returned to the front. At no time was her awkward position in society more acutely felt than after she'd lost both of her loves and was left alone in a strange village with family to whom she could not relate.

But love had other plans, and over the past few years the four loneliest hearts in Yorkshire had found themselves knee deep in it. It had been many years in the making. Charles and Elsie had taken notice of one another upon her arrival from Argyll. Richard and Isobel's attraction had simmered for a decade as they worked alongside one another. So what was it? Why had the tide suddenly turned in love's favor for both couples?

In the Clarksons' case, tragedy had been the catalyst, Richard's the arms into which Isobel had fallen when Matthew's life was cut tragically short. But when the haze of grief began to lift, she discovered joy in its place, companionship instead of solitude. She found herself _in love_ once again - that dizzying, heady, sweeping feeling of finding the other half of her soul. Richard spoke often of the unlimited nature of the love they had come to know, capturing it beautifully in a letter he wrote to her on the eve of their wedding. _"I knew unequivocally from the moment we met that I would love you until the last breath leaves my body … and beyond, my beauty, for love has neither beginning nor end. I have loved you, Isobel. I love you now, this moment. And when someday we are no more, our love will remain."_

Change was in the air for Charles and Elsie at the same time. Perhaps the losses of Lady Sybil and Matthew Crawley had led to a shift in their thinking, a realignment of priorities. As they looked into the future, knowing not the number of days left to them, it became pointless to deny that what existed between them was merely friendship, something finite and easily contained. Elsie had taken the lead, her example encouraging Charles that if he were to let her into his heart she would handle it with the tenderness it deserved. It had required a little patience on her part, as she waited for his courage to catch up to her own. But _oh,_ when it did! The first time his lips met hers, Charles knew that the sweet gift of love he had found in Elsie was a force of nature, unlimited in its capacity to fill the emptiness in both of their souls. It was a love so great that it combined two people who had believed their best days were well in the past into an entity, a _whole_ infinitely greater than the sum of its imperfect parts.

No matter the reason, each now had a sense that they had been moving slowly toward the love they had found - toward their destiny - for all of their days. And the waiting had most certainly proven worth the while.


	4. IV

**A/N: Many thanks for the lovely reviews! You certainly know how to make a writer feel good!**

 **Here we are with another installment in my "50 Words" prompt series. Consider it as one possible account of "missing moments." I've kept Elsie's revelation about Becky and the subsequent proposal intact, but other elements (the involvement of their friends in the renovation of the house, the timing of Anna's pregnancy and, of course, the biggie - married Richard and Isobel) venture into AU territory.**

 **Special thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey and Mistressdickens for scrutinizing this for me. Such a privilege to work with you both!**

 **Reviews are a treasure and, if you feel so inclined, do send me your ideas! I'll do my best to incorporate them in future installments.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **12\. Detailing**

It had come as nothing short of a shock to Elsie when Charles told her that he had not only purchased the house on Brouncker Road, but had registered it in her name as well as his. Back when he'd asked her to go in on the venture with him, she'd revealed that it wasn't a question of whether she wanted to - indeed, she thought it a lovely idea - but that she _couldn't_. With resignation, she'd confided that she had no savings, that all of her earnings had gone to pay for the care of a sister who was "not right in the head."

This revelation had taken Charles by surprise _. (Sister? She's never made mention of a sister before!)_ Perhaps even more jarring to him had been the fact that she was worried she had embarrassed _him_ in telling her story. In the end it was _he_ who had apologized, expressing concern that his persistence had come across as bullying. They'd been interrupted before they were able to properly reassure one another, and both had walked away feeling somewhat unsure of their footing.

So, on that Christmas Eve when he had revealed that the house was theirs, she'd felt as though the breath had been knocked right out of her lungs. And that was _before_ he had made his declaration. _"I_ _ **do**_ _want to be stuck with you."_ Those words were the ones she'd remember always, even more so than, "I'm asking you to marry me," because of the look in his eyes; the openness and sincerity, the _**love.**_ Those words had changed the entire course of her life, and had given new meaning to the decades spent working by his side.

And after she had accepted him, revealing that she'd have done so years before if only he'd asked, she'd revisited the subject of her inability to contribute to the purchase of the house, knowing that with so much change on the horizon it was imperative that they were on the same page.

"Elsie, look at me," he had entreated, waiting until her wide blue eyes met his. " _That_ is a look I never want to see cross your face again. It is noble, what you've done for your sister, and shame is the last thing you should feel. I must be the luckiest man alive to be marrying such a selfless, kind-hearted woman." His voice had broken, the next words coming as a whisper. "It only makes me love you more."

"But I've been working for almost thirty years with nothing to show for it! Surely you'll expect me to contribute and I _can't!_ " Her eyes had filled with tears and he'd wiped them away with gentle fingertips.

"What I _expect_ is to share what remains of my days with the woman I love. I intend to make the most of the time we have together in _our_ home. Will you join me?"

If his tender words hadn't put her fears to rest, then the smile upon his face had. She could do nothing but nod, joyous tears spilling down her cheeks. And then he'd kissed her so lovingly that her knees went weak and he caught her about the waist to help her keep her footing. Foreheads resting one against the other, they'd shared a laugh as they began to dream of the future.

 **oOo**

The cottage had good bones. That had been Richard's observation when Charles took him to see it. The structure was sound, the rooms well laid out. Lord and Lady Grantham had insisted upon installing modern plumbing and electricity ("The least we can do to express our appreciation for your lifetime of loyal service to this family," Lord Grantham had said) and, to Elsie's astonishment, Lady Mary had gifted them with a refrigerator - not without a sly grin in Charles' direction. In discussing plans for the lavatory, Richard offhandedly remarked that Charles would want to install a bathtub large enough for two. Upon seeing his friend's raised eyebrow, Richard had blushed a deep red before admitting that it had been his wisest investment when he'd married Isobel and renovated his own home. In the end, the Clarksons had purchased the large, double roll top tub selected by Charles and Elsie as a wedding gift for their friends.

Elsie's demands had been simple. She wanted to enlarge the window in the master bedroom so that she and Charles could look out upon the meadow that filled with wildflowers of every color in spring, where deer would graze with their young on summer evenings, where the vivid reds and oranges of autumn would set the trees ablaze. That and a nursery for John and Anna's long-awaited baby-to-be were her only requests, and Isobel had given her the use of the crib that had belonged to Matthew. George had moved beyond it into a single bed and Isobel insisted, over Elsie's protests, that her joy would be complete in seeing it put to good use by those she loved.

Richard and Charles had tackled many of the remaining repairs together - patching the roof, cutting down brush and leveling the floors. With their friends away on honeymoon, Isobel and Richard painted the rooms in the Carsons' chosen colors and oversaw the placement of furniture. On the day of their return Beryl stocked the refrigerator with a week's worth of meals and Anna made up the beds with brand new linens, a wedding gift from her and John. Isobel filled vases with fresh flowers and Richard laid a fire to ward off the evening chill.

Charles and Elsie arrived home expecting the cottage to be habitable but unfinished. As Charles turned the key in the lock a small hand halted him and he looked into the eyes of his wife (his _wife!_ ), shining with expectancy.

"Charles," she fairly squeaked, "we're _home!_ "

He tilted her chin up, placing a soft kiss to her lips.

"You're glad we did this, then?" he asked, smoothing his hands up and down her arms.

"Wherever we lived, I'd be home so long as you were by my side," she said. "But yes, I'm exceedingly glad we have a house of our own together."

He looked at her curiously, as if he couldn't decide his next move, and she sussed it out keenly.

"Well, go on then, you old booby! Surely you've no eye to carrying me across the threshold?! I'd put your back out for a month!"

He rolled his eyes and considered telling her that he knew, based upon their _activities_ of the past week, that she was wrong. Instead his hand came to rest at the small of her back as she preceded him through the doorway.

He heard her gasp, felt her clutch at his forearm as he stepped inside. The sight with which they were met left them both speechless. The cottage was finished down to the last detail. Afghans were draped over the armchairs, doilies adorned the table, candles glowed on the mantel. Curtains were hung, the woodbox was full. They ventured upstairs to find their bed had been situated in full view of the new window and made up with a finely-crocheted ivory counterpane. The lavatory was complete and stocked with luxurious cotton towels. Back downstairs to the kitchen, where they discovered the refrigerator filled to bursting and a note sitting on the counter.

 _Congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Carson!_

 _Welcome_ _ **home!**_

 _With Love,  
_ _Richard, Isobel, John, Anna and Beryl_

Charles drew Elsie into his arms, too overcome to say more than, "We have it all, my girl."

She nodded. "Our love, our home, and a family made up of friends."


	5. V

**A/N: I have been so blessed by your lovely, thoughtful reviews! You are a wonderful bunch and I'm ever so grateful for your ongoing support. This includes you, my guest reviewers, to whom I can't personally respond.**

 **This one is particularly special to me. There's quite a bit of my own soul in this chapter and it's awfully close to my heart. It's also inspired by the story of a brave fangirl friend.**

 **Daffodils symbolize rebirth and new beginnings and they've just begun to bloom here. I saw them and instantly thought of Isobel. Quite a bit of musical inspiration behind this as well, snatches of lyrics here and there.**

 **While this prompt is very Isobel-centric, this is still a Chelsie fic as well ... Have no fear! Chapter VII will be all Chelsie, all the time. _And how!_ ;)**

 **Special thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey and Mistressdickens for beta, scrutiny, and assurance.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **13\. Redeem**

 _Never would have believed it  
_ _Till I felt it in my own heart  
_ _In the deepest part  
_ _The healing came_

 _-Sara Groves, "Something Changed"_

 **oOo**

As they walked home from brunch at the Abbey, the weather was balmy for late March. Coats soon proved unnecessary, so they took them off and carried them. They held hands, chatting about the grandchildren, Robert's ideas for a railway exhibit at the Historical Society gala, the vegetable garden they were soon to begin planting. Talk had turned to the latest journal article on the use of insulin in the treatment of diabetes when Isobel suddenly stopped near the creek.

"Would you look at these?!" she gasped, kneeling beside a patch of daffodils. She buried her nose in them, inhaling the delicate fragrance. "Oh, they're my favorite!"

Richard grinned, his heart thrilling at seeing her so joyful. "There are more of them up ahead. See?" The meadow was filled with the blooms and they walked on, Isobel falling to her knees amid a sea of yellow.

" _Oh,"_ she exclaimed, "have you ever seen anything so beautiful?"

"Well yes, as a matter of fact, _I_ have," he said with a pointed look as he knelt beside her.

"You daft, lovely man." She couldn't wipe the smile from her lips as she kissed him. "Matthew used to bring me armfuls of these from the wood behind his school. He always said they reminded him of me."

Richard cupped her chin in his hand and their eyes met. "You're smiling, Isobel."

"Hmm?"

"You've just mentioned Matthew and you're smiling. You've been doing so rather frequently of late. Did you know that?"

He smoothed her cheek and she leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. "For the first time, I can think of him and all the pain is gone, the memories happy ones. I remember who he was, not how I lost him. I have you to thank for that, Richard."

"Me? Whatever for?"

"You bore witness to the darkness in me, and it didn't frighten you. Or if it did, you never let on. You gave of yourself tirelessly when I'd nothing to give you in return. I was paralyzed by fear and grief and you held me up until I could stand on my own two feet again. You spoke to me of goodness and strength I thought were long gone. I lost my _soul_ , Richard. You bought it back for me."

He spread their coats out on the ground, beckoning her to sit, and when she was settled he sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. "It was inside you all along, Isobel. You only needed to know where to look."

He held her silently as they watched the clouds pass by, spying castles, mountains, maidens in towers. "You see that one? That was me, locked away in a prison of my own making. And as ridiculous as it sounds, you set me free." She turned to him with a girlish smile on her face, palming his cheek. "My hero."

He answered her with a gentle kiss, his arms coming around her waist. "I only did for you what you'd have done for me, sweet girl. The woman you are was never lost. Grief is a heavy mantle and you bore it with grace, whether you think so or not. Stop selling yourself short. You never quit living, even if it felt like you did."

She turned in his arms, resting her head on his chest. "There are things I don't remember … large amounts of time that are missing in my mind."

He nodded, rubbing circular patterns across her back. "That's what happens. But I was there, Isobel, and I assure you that you kept on giving and reaching out to others even in the thick of it."

"But it bothers me that I'm missing time. I'm worried I've forgotten something precious."

He kissed her temple, tucking back a strand of hair the breeze had worked loose. "Lie down," he urged, and she rested her head on his thighs. He stroked her furrowed brow, willing it smooth. "Tell me what you do remember, and I'll fill in the rest."

From this vantage point, she couldn't decide what was more blue: the sky or his eyes. She fixated upon the latter, her favorite shade, as she thought. "I remember … I remember delivering George. Oh, Richard, you let me do that! Have I thanked you?"

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it. "You have," he affirmed. "Profusely."

"Good. And I remember when you first kissed me. Did we say 'I love you' then?"

"Indeed we did. Before _and_ after." He winked at her.

She grew thoughtful again. "Of course I remember your proposal." She held up her left hand, the diamond in her engagement ring glinting in the sun. "And when you kissed me in the snow on the night before the wedding. Of all the kisses we've shared, that one is my favorite. You must think me terribly silly."

"Well, you can be, for certain," he teased. "But not about that."

"The cheek!" She giggled. "I'll never forget our vows …" She trailed off, pressing a hand to her mouth as the next memory came. "Or the first time we made love. _Oh, Richard …_ " She ended on a whisper.

"I know, beauty. Come here." She sat up and he captured her lips with his own.

She continued to recount her memories, and when she was through he began to fill in the missing moments for her.

"You remember more than you think you do," he assured. He proceeded to tell her about the sleepless nights she'd spent holding Mary, sometimes weeping openly in the arms of her daughter-in-law, at others drying the younger woman's tears. He told of how Tom had confided in him that watching Isobel (who had become "Mum" to him, so close were they) grieve had helped free him to truly mourn the loss of his precious Sybil and begin to move forward. When Richard finished, Isobel felt as if the puzzle that had been her past few years fit together at last.

She turned her face toward the sun, eyes closed and arms outstretched. "I can **_feel_** again, Richard! There is heat radiating from the sun and I feel it! The ground beneath us is hard. Your hand as it holds mine is warm and strong. I know these sensations were there all along; that it's my perception that was dulled for a season. But it's all returning to me now, and in such sharp focus that it's as if I'm truly _feeling_ what it is to be alive … for the first time."

They walked home together in the fading light of evening, each with their arms full of daffodils. Isobel chattered nonstop, exclaiming over the beauty of the robins' twilight song, the array of colors present in the sunset, the silken softness of George's hair as she'd ruffled it that afternoon. It was as if she had just shown up for her own life, commonplace things suddenly taking on a significance they never had before.

As Richard watched his wife, he couldn't have erased the smile from his face if he'd tried. He had known all along that this day would come, that the light would return once more to Isobel's eyes. It was a magnificent thing to witness the fire in her belly fan to flame again.

Like the flowers that had sprung up from the broken earth, hope was born anew in Isobel's heart that day and she turned the corner, putting her sorrow behind her once and for all.


	6. VI

**A/N: Thank you for your kind reviews, and please do keep them coming. Writing is the primary means by which my soul expresses itself these days and feedback matters. If you read (and I can see that you are - thank you!) and then share your thoughts with me, you let me know that my efforts, my endless thinking and my love of these characters is worth the while. Your responses matter, and what's more, they inspire.**

 **Speaking of inspiration ... Would you prompt me? I'm approaching these 50 word prompts with my own headcanon, life experiences, stories that come from books I read or films I love or songs I hear. But sometimes I'd really like a challenge; for someone to say, "I want to see them do _this._ " I've already received, and will be writing, two lovely prompts and I'm hungry for more! Don't hesitate to send them my way!**

 **So, here we are. Rating changes to M for this one ... and here's a teaser ... for the next as well! Not every chapter will include full-on M-ness from here on out, but as we've two _very lovingly_ married couples, there's going to be some lovin' from time to time. ;) This time it's Richard and Isobel's turn; next chapter is Charles and Elsie's!**

 **Special thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey and Mistressdickens for beta and review.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **14\. Entering**

"I want you." Those three words, spoken by her husband, are Isobel's undoing every time. She chastises herself for it … she shouldn't be putty in his hands the way she is! Shouldn't _need_ him like she does. She champions suffrage, mentors young women as they establish new, suitable careers for themselves, ones in which they won't have to worry about their health, their safety, or the men who control them. She was on her own for twenty years and she built a fine life for herself. She doesn't need a man.

And it's true, she doesn't need _a man_. She needs _this one._ The one who ribs her mercilessly for her outspokenness, who meets her every hasty retort with a well-formed opinion of his own. He is so very unlike her in so many ways that it would seem they'd never work. Not as acquaintances, not as colleagues, and most certainly not as husband and wife. _And yet._

They're absurdly happy together. Richard knew exactly what he was getting when he married Isobel, and he loves her _for_ it. Not in spite of it. Loves her intensity, her fire. He is equally intense, the only difference being that his is a quiet intensity. He understands her, the motivations of her heart. Knows the purity of her soul. He truly _knows_ her, as few have done.

And so she is his, unequivocally. Just as much as she is her own woman. And those words of his remind her that he's all in, and so when he says them she smiles, steps into his open arms and sighs contentedly as she palms his cheek, kisses him hotly.

"Yes," she rasps, taking a step backward, and then another. She rests her back against the wall and he notes the look in her eyes. This is surrender. _I trust you enough to be vulnerable._ And it's also a challenge. _Now what are you going to do about it?!_

Richard steps close, invading her space, her thoughts, her senses. "I love you, Isobel." His breath is hot against the side of her neck and she tilts her head. He reads the invitation and meets the soft skin with nips of his teeth.

"I love you, Richard." She places her palms flat against the wall and they stare into one another's eyes. _I know what this costs you_ , his gaze tells her. _I know what a gift you're giving me._ She nods, eyes slipping shut as his fingers work the buttons of her blouse, as his lips meet the swell of her breast.

"Ohh …" It's a gasp, it's a whisper. It's music to his ears, and he knows what she's thinking. Nothing they're doing is new. It's a dance as old as time, but still somehow every touch, every kiss _feels_ fresh and exciting.

"I can feel your heart beating," he whispers, and she smiles wickedly at him, nodding once more. He pushes her blouse off her shoulders, catches her wrists and holds them, one on either side of her head against the wall. Notes her increased rate of respiration, the unspoken words on her lips.

"What?" he asks, and she thrills at the look in his eyes.

"Kiss me."

He chuckles, shakes his head. He may have the upper hand, but she gets the last word. _Always_. He steps closer again. Their chests press together and both exclaim at the contact. He looks into her eyes as he tilts his head and stops just short of brushing his lips against hers, watches her mouth tremble in anticipation.

"Beautiful girl," he breathes. She feels it more than hears it and then his lips are on hers and her stomach flips with nervous excitement like it did their first time. She wants to feel him, but she's pinned like a butterfly to the wall and so she meets his mouth hungrily, answering his probing tongue with her own. When the need to breathe forces them apart she looks at him, a question in her eyes. He raises an eyebrow at her.

She twists her wrists in his hands. "Can I ...?"

He nods, lets go of her wrists and brings both hands to his lips, kissing them.

Smiling, she snakes her arms around his neck. "Better," she sighs. "Want to hold you."

"Isobel," he murmurs, overcome by her tenderness. She is as strong when she yields like this as she was running a wartime hospital, and the contradiction fascinates him. _"My Bel."_

"Yes," she affirms. She works open the buttons on his shirt as he rids her of her brassiere and unfastens her skirt. When they are bare, lying in bed in each other's arms her stomach flips again and she giggles. He rubs his thumb over her bottom lip and grins at her.

"So exciting," she says, "every time."

"I love that about you," he answers. "About us."

He moves over her, leaning on his elbows. She closes her eyes, overwhelmed, and her hands roam his back as he rests against her skin. They kiss deeply as their hands explore. He knows that tracing his fingertips along her inner thighs makes them quiver. She knows that nipping at his carotid pulse makes him harden almost painfully.

He raises up to look at her with dark, hooded eyes as he guides himself into her, entering slowly. Her own eyes fill with tears of joy and she tips her hips up to meet him.

" _Ohh … It's so …"_ The words elude her. This is the moment she's been waiting for. She wiggles her hips and smoothes her hands along his sides. She is so _full,_ and the ache inside her is building and it will until she comes but _now_. Now she just wants to feel this. She was empty and now she's not and it's a microcosm of her life before him juxtaposed against her life now.

He kisses her cheeks and rocks his pelvis and bottoms out inside her. He's one with her to the point that his thoughts flow straight to his lips like hers do. "Inside you," he breathes, and her womb contracts at the sound of it. She is wet and warm and tight, her body beneath him soft, welcoming, elegant.

He moves, pulling back almost entirely and thrusting ever-so-slowly forward until he is sheathed fully again. He swears under his breath.

"Like that," she murmurs, and it becomes their rhythm. The sensuality alone - the heat arcing between them and the way he talks to her - is almost enough, and when his fingertips brush her center she keens as release overtakes her powerfully. He caresses her face with the back of his hand as she recovers, and when her legs wrap around his waist he begins to move again, and she rises to meet him.

It's the words she whispers in his ear that are his undoing. "Come into me, love."

Later, as he lies in her arms, he tells her that it's in those moments when she yields her strength to him that he knows she's a force to be reckoned with.


	7. VII

**A/N: Thank you, lovely reviewers. I am so grateful to each one of you. Please know how it blesses me when you take the time to let me know that my writing resonates with you.**

 **To ChelsieSouloftheAbbey, thank you for prompting a stuck writer. That's exactly what I needed. I can take these 50 words in many different directions, y'all. So send me your ideas, and I'll run with them! I've posted a number of updates this week because I was rather ill not long ago and writing was the only activity I could manage from bed. All good now; time to start writing again. Hence the request for prompts. ;)**

 **Remember when I said that it was Charles and Elsie's turn for some M-rated good times? I wrote this one close to a month ago now and have been sitting on it all this time. I was _dying_ ... with "entering" and "heat" back-to-back as my prompts I couldn't _not_ go there! I'm hardly the first to approach this subject with these two, but it is _my_ first approach. I often wonder, as a writer, how - and _whether_ \- to say what's already been said by so many others, but without further ado, here it is.**

 **Thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey and Mistressdickens for beta/review and, most importantly, for boosting my confidence.**

 ***** M for reasons ... *****

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **15\. Heat**

Elsie removes the last pin from her hair and it tumbles down her back in wild auburn waves. She picks up her brush but the warm hand on her shoulder and the husky bass in her ear halt her movements.

"Let me." Charles isn't commanding, nor is he asking. She nods. She knows. He sees it in the mirror; she sees his eyes darkened black. Her eyes close as he glides the brush through her hair, counting one hundred strokes under his breath. She smiles. _Such precision._ He sets the brush down and places both hands on her shoulders.

"Elsie." There is so much in those two syllables - _love, admiration, longing._ She rises, turns to him, steps into his embrace. He lifts her chin and there's no other word for it, he _stares_ into her eyes with intensity, with intent. She kisses him fiercely, raking her teeth across his bottom lip. Then she takes it between her own, soothes the sting with her tongue.

His large fingers fumble with her buttons and they meet one another's eyes, laughing.

"Steady now," she whispers, and her brogue is thicker in the haze of desire.

She is bare before him, unabashed. She lifts the hem of his vest; he raises his arms, bows his head and tenderly she rids him of it and his shorts.

They gaze at one another and it's glorious. Reverent. Appreciative. The apprehension that ruled their earliest encounters is but a distant memory now, a year and a half into marriage. They know one another fully, in the deepest sense of the word. Every wrinkle and scar and stretch mark … they all have stories to tell; they are the substance of love.

He sits on the edge of the bed and takes her hands in his, bringing her to stand between his legs. There are things about their size difference that are wondrous in these moments. The way she doesn't have to bend down to run her fingers through his hair. The way his lips meet her breast and—.

 _Oh!_ She knows it's coming; he always does it, yet it never fails to steal the breath from her lungs, this tenderness and devotion with which he brushes his lips across the scar. _That scar,_ the one that threatened to take her away from him before she was even his.

He looks up at her, his lips rooted to the spot and she sobs and smiles in the same breath. She nods her understanding.

"I love _all_ of you, Elsie."

It's all she knows as his lips close around her nipple and she clutches at his shoulders. He lingers because he's so close to her heart that he can hear, can _feel_ how rapidly it's beating in response to his ministrations. She whispers to him, musical Gaelic bits that he treasures.

"Bidh gràdh agam ort an còmhnaidh." _I will love you always_. He understands it now, and he stops and looks into her eyes, nodding.

"Always." His hands glide down from her waist to cup her bottom and he lies back, pulling her with him. As she lies next to him his arm comes around her waist. She presses her lips to his chest and feels the steady thud of his heart and the heat of his skin and it's both soothing and arousing. _He's alive and warm and real and here with me._ The flat of his palm comes to rest on her abdomen and the muscles flutter. Current runs under her skin where he's touching her.

His fingers slip between her folds, opening her to him and he lets out a half-sigh, half moan at the feel of her, slick and hot and _his._ His wife, his heart, his home. He is working her into a frenzy and her knuckles are white as she grasps the sheets.

"Charles," she rasps, " _please."_ She reaches for his hand, and as his body covers hers she entwines their fingers. He settles into the cradle of her hips as her knees fall open. Her body responds of its own volition and now _she_ moans, cannot keep quiet. He slips a finger inside her and her hips lift off the mattress. A second, and she cries out as her whole body stiffens and she contracts around him as he whispers tenderly to her. She is over-sensitive now and he ceases stroking her, cupping her firmly but gently as the aftershocks subside.

He pulls his fingers from her heat and she whimpers at the loss. He strokes her hair, kissing her cheek. "Shh," he soothes. "I'm here."

He moves over her and bends down to take her lips sweetly. The tip of her tongue touches his and he moans into her mouth, deepening the kiss. When their lips part she is panting, cheeks flushed. He smiles adoringly.

"Beautiful," he murmurs and she holds her arms out, drawing him down until her breasts are pressed against his chest. He kisses her neck, nips at the hollows of her collarbones. Her fingertips glide over the broad expanse of his back, the tender skin of his sides and down, cupping his bottom and pressing his pelvis into her.

"Charles … _Now_." Her voice is throaty, and as she reaches for him he hisses as her hand engulfs his length. She guides him into her and he closes his eyes against the onslaught of sensation, of emotion.

"Els," he pants, "my _God!_ " It's far from the first time they've done this, but the lifetime they lived longing for these moments fills them with intense wonder. That it could be _like this_ … their wildest imaginations never came close.

She reaches up, smoothing his brow with gentle fingertips. "Shh … I know, love."

He pauses when he is buried fully within her. "Home," he whispers, and she nods. "I love you, Elsie."

She palms his cheek. "I love you, Charlie."

He moves in long, slow strokes, hitting her in all the places she needs him. She arches up into him, her back almost completely off the bed. He speeds up as he feels them both building toward completion and she tilts her hips up, up, up and the new angle is all it takes. She is falling once again, chanting, "Don't stop, don't stop" as she pulsates around him.

He is right behind her, her name upon his lips as he shudders his release. He rolls to his side and pulls her flush against him, her back against his chest.

"I've waited forever for this, Elsie," he says softly.

"Forever." She nods and kisses him.

When she senses sleep closing in on them both, Elsie encourages Charles to lie on his back. He regards her curiously until she stretches her body along the length of his, her head resting over his heart. She raises her head up and catches the contented smile that plays on his lips. And then she kisses those lips, lingering so that she is graced with a soft moan from him.

"Good night, my darling man." She brushes the pad of her thumb across his lips and he kisses it.

"Good night, sweet girl." She feels her cheeks flush at the endearment and lays her head back against his chest, his heartbeat soothing her to sleep.


	8. VIII

**A/N: You guys! I am blown away by all the sweet, sincere reviews. Thank you SO very much for sharing your thoughts with me. You're an incredible bunch.**

 **And now for something completely different! This came as a result of a lovely review by Batwings79 of an earlier chapter, in which she asked, "What about Isobel? What about her love for Reginald? Will it compete with her love for Richard for the spot in her heart to 'outlast time?'" And it got me thinking ... _What do I believe about this?_ I had quite a bit of fun contemplating the possibilities, and no characters were harmed in the writing of this chapter - lol.**

 **Thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for pointing out when it's necessary to state the obvious. ;)**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **16\. Role**

It's not a topic she likes to think about. As a nurse it was one she'd been forced to address often, particularly by the innocent. The children, grandchildren, or young siblings of patients taken to their eternal rest suddenly, unexpectedly, or at early ages. It's one she's had to face in her own life many times over, and she's finally found healing and hope, the long-awaited silver lining behind the black cloud of grief that hung over her heart for far too long.

This time it's by purely innocuous circumstances that the subject is brought to her attention. She's got Sybbie with her of an afternoon and they're in the kitchen. Lavender shortbread biscuits are on the menu for teatime, when Tom and Richard are due back from York. The little girl is arrayed in a pink apron over her blouse and skirt, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair pinned up (much to her delight - she's been waiting _years_ , she says) into a chignon to keep it out of the cookery. She looks every inch her grandmother's miniature as she stands on the stepstool, Isobel behind her.

"Now, you hold the rolling pin," Isobel instructs. "We're meant to roll the dough flat, and when it reaches the proper thinness we'll cut it into heart shapes." She covers her granddaughter's hands with her own. "There we are! Brilliant!" Sybbie smiles up at Isobel, who drops a kiss on the crown of her head.

They've discussed a wide variety of things today, from Sybbie's classmates at Ripon Grammar, to her distaste for mathematics ("Your marks are fine," Isobel said, "but if they begin to suffer then Granddad will tutor you."), to ways in which she might successfully convince her father of her _need_ for a puppy, so besotted is she with her grandparents' MacTavish.

It's as they're transferring the cut-out hearts to the baking sheet that the question comes. "Nana," Sybbie begins, all casual. "Do you suppose that when we all meet in heaven, Mummy and Daddy will be married?"

It catches Isobel flat-footed, and she feels her knees go weak. She leans into the counter, schooling her face into a neutral expression, willing her voice calm.

"What makes you ask such a question?" She thinks she manages to sound simply curious and not alarmed and she dusts her hands on her apron, then places them on Sybbie's shoulders.

The little girl shrugs nonchalantly. "My school chum Charlotte and I were talking. It's her mother and father's tenth wedding anniversary in a fortnight. She asked me about my parents and I told her my mum's been in heaven all my life. She said that Mummy and Daddy will celebrate their anniversaries in heaven together one day."

Isobel pulls out a chair and sits down, indicating that Sybbie should do the same. She thinks for a moment. Typically, she's adept at speaking off-the-cuff, but her granddaughter's inquiry raises questions of her own and she finds herself at a loss.

"I think," she begins cautiously, "that Charlotte meant well by what she said to you. And I'd like to give you a suitable answer, but the truth is that I'm not certain. I do know that we never stop loving those who are dear to us. We've talked about this before. My son, your Uncle Matthew …" Isobel pauses, and Sybbie nods. She has none of her own memories of Uncle Matthew, but she's seen photographs, has talked with her grandmother and her daddy about him many times.

"I love him today just as much as I did the day he was born, or the day he married Auntie Mary. And I _know_ I'll see him again one day. Whether we'll be mother and son in heaven, I couldn't say. I suppose the best answer I can give you is that I won't know until I get there. But I know we'll recognize one another, and that our love will be the same. How does that sit with you?" She finds herself smiling, pleased to discover her own nascent opinion.

Sybbie flashes a smile and nods once again. "Perhaps Mummy and Daddy will be married in heaven, and perhaps not. But they'll know and love one another no matter what." It's clear that her seven-year-old curiosity is satisfied for the moment, and conversation moves on to the riding lessons Uncle Charles has been taking her to. Afternoon fades into evening, teatime arrives and the subject is forgotten.

 **oOo**

It revisits Isobel in a dream a week later. Richard is out of town overnight, covering the night shift for an old friend, the Chief of Surgery at the Royal Yorkshire Hospital. She feels his absence acutely, as it's one of only three nights they've spent apart in five years of marriage, and she's restless. When sleep finally finds her it's gone two o'clock.

She becomes aware of a strange sensation … her tired, heavy limbs are suddenly weightless, and she sees stars, is surrounded by them as if she's traveling _through_ them on her way to somewhere. There's a brightness in the distance, coming nearer by the second. _Wait, is it brightness … or is it warmth? Could it be … both?_ Three shadows stand just inside an immense, open gate. They appear in silhouette, but she'd recognize them anywhere. As she approaches, the tallest - who is also nearest - extends his hand, beckoning to her. She reaches out to him, but it's still several moments before she's close enough to grasp his outstretched hand. She stares into his face, at the place where she knows his eyes should be, and at last she can make out the crystalline aqua she marveled at for thirty-six years and has been haunted by every day since.

"Mother!" His hand enfolds hers and it's warm. _It's warm!_ The last time she touched him he had been stone cold.

"Matthew! Oh, my son!" She falls to her knees, thinking she ought to be weeping for joy, but the tears just won't come. He kneels before her, watching her face with that amused smirk she thought she'd never see again.

"There are no tears here, Mother. It's just as you told me it would be." She embraces him, once more struck by his _warmth,_ but finds it odd that she can't feel his heart beating. He sees her brow furrow and knows what's coming, laughing as her fingers press against his throat, searching for his carotid pulse. "Medicine truly is in your blood, isn't it?! Once a nurse, always a nurse." At her puzzled look, he elaborates. "What you knew as the human heart doesn't exist here, Mother. The heart decays; these bodies do not."

She presses her fingers against her own throat, finding her pulse instantly. "But mine … I don't understand. You're here. I'm here, and yet, I mustn't be …"

At this Matthew laughs heartily, as does the figure behind him. It takes a great deal to rattle his mother, and he's only witnessed her bewilderment a handful of times. He takes her hand again and leads her to the laughing figure behind them, whose features suddenly appear in sharp focus. Placing his mother's hand in the other man's, Matthew steps aside.

She can see his face now, but even if she couldn't she'd know the touch of his hand anywhere. "Reginald?!" Her free hand comes up to trace the contours of that face she loved - _loves_ \- with all of her being. _"Reggie!_ My darling, it's you!"

His hazel eyes twinkle at her, the corners crinkling in a smile. "Well, I should hope so! Otherwise I've just spent the last five years listening to another man's son call me 'Father!' Oh, Izzy, you haven't aged a day since I last saw you."

There's that flummoxed expression again, the one he saw on only a few more occasions than his son. He reaches out, smoothing the furrow between her brows with the pad of his thumb. She leans forward, into his touch. _It_ _ **is**_ _him!_

"'Izzy,'" she echoes. "No one's called me that in … well, you know precisely how long! And what do you mean I haven't aged? I'm _sixty-five_ now, Reggie!" But as she looks down at her hands, she understands what he means. Gone are the age spots that have come to mar her skin; the joints that had recently begun to stiffen and twist from the effects of arthritis move fluidly once more.

"Not here, my love. Think back. When were you happiest?"

She stands there and thinks, cradling his face in her hands. _His face. In her hands. He called me 'my love.' But …_

His voice interrupts her. _"Izzy,"_ he says with emphasis, so that she has the impression he's had to say it several times now.

"Thirty-seven," she finally manages. "My best year was thirty-seven. Matthew had just been accepted to Manchester Prep. Daddy was still with us. And you and I were eighteen years married that year, and so in love! But … I don't understand, Reggie. You called me _'my love.'_ And I love you. I know that as surely now as the day we were wed. But you know I'm married to Richard now."

"That's what I brought you here to talk about," he responds calmly, ushering her over to a deep blue velvet settee by a window shrouded in gossamer curtains. She shakes her head, astounded. It's _the_ settee, in front of _the_ window in their bedroom in the house in Manchester.

"I know all about Richard, Izzy. I watched the two of you work side-by-side. I got quite a tickle at the way he was able to raise your ire," he chuckles. "I knew, even if you didn't, that he was in love with you. I watched him care for you when Matthew … came home early. And I know about the talk you had with your granddaughter - and by the by, love, that is so _very_ much like you, taking young Branson and his daughter as your own kin. What did we talk about, you and I, before my homegoing?" He holds her hands in his, smoothing his thumbs over her knuckles in that manner that would only ever belong to Reggie.

"I don't like to think about those days," she says, quietly and with downcast eyes.

He lifts her chin and makes her look at him. "I know you don't, but what a gift it was that we _knew_. I got the chance to impart to Matthew the importance of looking after you, precious. And what did I tell _you?_ "

Once again Isobel finds herself thinking she should cry, but the corresponding sorrow is conspicuously absent. Instead she smiles. "You said that you'd love me forever, but I mustn't wait for you, that I had far too much love to give and not to let it go to waste."

"Indeed. And I know it all, darling … the way you swore you'd never love again, and threw yourself into working, as if that would be enough. It wasn't, though. Was it?"

She shakes her head and he continues. "I wasn't surprised ... God knows - _and yes, He does, incidentally_ \- I could never tell you anything! So I … bent His ear a little when I saw there was a suitor worthy of you."

Incredulous once more, Isobel sputters. "But I … And you? … Am I to understand that _you_ sent Richard to me?"

"Well, not quite. You see, I haven't the power to do the sending. But, rather like Abraham, I _strongly suggested._ "

It's Isobel's turn to laugh. "I don't know why I'm surprised; you always did have the power of persuasion." She thinks for a moment, her eyes fixed on his. "But what does this mean for us, Reggie?"

"Oh, Izzy," he sighs, smoothing her cheek. "It means that I have always loved you, and just as I told you on that day, I always will. You were mine for half my life. The best half." He winks at her. "And because you are my one true love, I placed your heart in Richard's hands for safekeeping. You did a fine job on your own, precious, but _you_ were made to be the other half of a worthy man's soul. So come now, give us a kiss, for old times' sake. Because it's time you were on your way."

"On my way?" she whispers, thinking she finally understands how Alice must have felt. _This just keeps getting curiouser and curiouser._

"Never mind that. You'll see." He offers his hand and she takes it, and as they move to stand by the window his arms come around her waist and she wraps hers around his neck.

"I never thought I'd feel your arms around me again," she murmurs, and he begins to sway them gently.

"I can still say you feel like … well … _here,_ " he responds, and they chuckle. His voice drops by nearly a full octave and she is reminded of their wedding day as he says the next words. "I love you, Isobel."

And just like on that day more than forty-five years ago, her lips tremble in anticipation of his kiss. "I love you," she breathes as his lips descend on hers. As they make contact she begins to see all of their most treasured memories flash before her eyes, and _then._ Then she sees herself at his graveside, and sleeping alone in a bed made for two. Sees herself with Matthew, freshly arrived at Downton, and then shaking the hand of the village doctor. In that moment it dawns on her: she's seeing herself through Reginald's eyes.

"Let him love you." She hears Reginald's voice clear as day somehow, though they are still kissing. She clings to his lapels as she sees _him_ seeing _her_ fall in love with Richard, _feels_ the joy in his heart as he looks upon her standing at the altar with her new love, his satisfaction upon hearing Richard proclaim that his love for her will outlast time.

Their lips part and Isobel folds herself into his embrace, as if in so doing she can keep him forever. "Go to him, Izzy. Go, and make him as happy as you've made me."

Her mind is racing. _But I don't want to leave you, Reg. I love you!_

 _Of course you do. But you love him, and I_ _ **know**_ _all about the way you love. You do nothing by halves, my dear. He's not a rival for my affections; I chose him for you. He is your present, and he'll be your future. You won't be sad about it, and neither will I. 'He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes.' One day you'll understand._

"Come now, love. There's someone waiting for you." He leads her by the hand to the third figure, placing her hand in his. _Oh, Richard!_ Her thumb rests on the pulse point in his wrist and there it is, steady and strong. _Wait … That means—._

"Oh, thank God, you're just visiting as well then?" she says to her husband.

He grins, glancing at Reginald, and the two of them shake their heads. "She's beautiful, but you can't tell her _anything,_ " he says to the other man.

"Don't I know it," Reginald laughs. "Twenty years with the woman, and I've never known anyone more stubborn! Godspeed to you, man. You'll take it from here, then?" He extends his hand to Richard and they shake firmly.

Reginald begins to move into the shadows, appearing in silhouette once more. "Listen to the man, Izzy. He knows you so much better than you know yourself. And tell young Sybbie that her mother will see her _and_ Mr. Branson one day, but not for a good, long time."

Before Isobel can respond with one last _'I love you,'_ Reginald is gone.

 **oOo**

She is awakened by the feeling of arms around her, of lips pressed against the back of her neck. She turns in those arms, looking into the bluest eyes she's ever seen. She smiles brightly. Richard has returned from his stint at the hospital. He's home. _And so is she._

Richard catches the expression of pure joy on her face. "You look as if you've died and gone to heaven," he remarks.

She responds by taking his lips in a searing kiss. "Something like that," she manages as they break apart. "Oh, Richard … our love is … _**always**_ _._ Do you know that?"

"I seem to recall having said something to that effect before." His eyes sparkle as he teases her, and she remembers Reginald's words. _Listen to the man_.

"Mind telling me again?" She banters. "It seems I could do with reminding."

"I'll do better than tell you." He gives as good as he gets. "Allow me to show you."

It's noon before they make it out of bed that day.


	9. IX

**A/N: So this had sat, partially written, for close to three weeks. It began as a response to chelsie-prompts' end-of-March "Rain" prompt. I know many others have already published theirs, but here's mine.**

 **Many thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for beta.**

 **And to all of you, thank you so very much for your support! As ever, all reads, reblogs and reviews are much appreciated. Chelsie on!**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **17\. Washing**

Walking home from church it's uncomfortably humid, the air so still it's stale. Her dress clings in a way that makes her want to squirm … except that would require movement beyond what's necessary.

He trails behind her and they're quiet, the heat making even conversation too much of an effort. Occasionally she reaches back and he reaches forward, their fingertips _just_ touching as if to reassure. _I'm still with you._

Elsie looks up as they pass a copse of trees, noting a fat robin, its head tipped back, bright red breast proudly on display.

"She's singing her rain song," Elsie says, breaking the silence. Charles' eyes follow the point of her finger and he acknowledges with a nod and the faintest hint of a smile. A second feathered friend echoes from farther away and thunder rumbles in the distance. They can smell the rain coming … it's not far off now.

They quicken their pace slightly, the heat impeding much exertion, but as they crest the next hill it's clear that the weather has them beaten. The cottage is just around the next bend, but between here and there there's no place to hide, no waiting it out.

Charles glances at his wife, can see she's plotting something. She looks at him, her eyes glinting mischievously, and hikes up her skirt. His mouth drops open, his face aghast as he works out her plan.

"Well," she says, "we're going to get soaked to the bone either way … might as well enjoy ourselves! Take my hand."

He shakes his head but a smile reaches his eyes. Times like this the heart of the Scottish farm girl just can't be tamed; as much as it knocks him off balance, he loves it. He reaches for her hand and they break into a run.

And it's a good thing they do; by the time they've covered half the distance the rain is coming down full force, slanting sideways. Her hair has worked itself free of its tidy chignon and is plastered against her face. She swipes at her eyes with a water-logged sleeve and it does no good at all. She chances a glance at Charles and can't help the laughter that bubbles up. _He looks like a drowned rat_ , she thinks. His hair is matted down flat against his head and water streams off the ends of his jacket sleeves. She tugs at his hand.

"Almost there," she pants. They reach the front door as a loud clap of thunder resonates. He reaches for the knob and his hand slips from the dampness. Her eyes meet his and a frisson of anxiety passes between them. "It's only because it's wet," she murmurs, turning the knob and ushering him inside.

She turns her back to him. "Would you …?" When he doesn't move she glances at him over her shoulder. "Charles, my buttons. Would you help me out of this dress?"

 _Now_ he grins. They're inside, out of the storm and he can stop fretting. "Why, Mrs. Carson, you managed to make that sound somewhat risqué," he teases.

Her heart begins to beat faster. _He remembers._

"And if I did?" She is coquettish as she looks up at him from beneath her lashes. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath as he opens one button after another, not a hint of paroxysm in his touch. He pushes the dress off her shoulders and exhales puffs of warm air on her damp skin. She feels that now-familiar tightening beginning low in her belly.

She turns in his arms. "Och! This won't do!" She tugs at the soaked sleeves of his jacket until it drops onto the floor next to her dress. His shirt is damp as well and as she removes his tie she notes his eyes on her, his indrawn breath. Suddenly the heat that was oppressive outside is intoxicating as it suffuses through his shirt into her fingertips.

When they're down to their underthings she turns again, bending to pick up their discarded clothing. "We must hang these straightaway or they'll ruin," she says.

He places his hands on her shoulders and turns her toward him once more. "Leave it." His bass rumbles and she feels it as much as she hears it.

"Charles?" She doesn't mean to sound so breathless, but as she looks into his eyes, dark and hooded, the response is automatic.

"Come to bed." It's a half-whisper, and she places her hand in his as she trails behind him up the stairs.

She thrills at watching him this way - leading her, taking charge - because now that they are married, now that they are _lovers,_ she finds he defers to her with great regularity. And it's not that she doesn't love it. _Oh,_ he is so very tender with her! He would never push her beyond what was comfortable. But it was _passion,_ barely restrained, that she saw in his eyes on the night he proposed and then kissed her, awakening in her feelings she had long since put down to youthful fancy.

They step inside their bedroom and she _just_ manages to hold back a giggle as he closes the door. They could not be more _all alone_ , but if she's honest she'll admit there's an undercurrent of romance and quiet devotion in the gesture and that it makes her feel treasured. As if they were the only two alive, and she the only woman his eyes had ever alighted upon.

And then there is the way he looks at her. Still. Again. The room is silent save for the sound of their breathing, the rain pelting the windows and drumming on the roof. And her heartbeat pounds in her ears as she watches him, waiting … waiting.

What happens next is not at all what she's expecting, as he nips into the lavatory and returns with a towel. "Your hair, love," he explains. "You'll be uncomfortable if we leave it." She reaches a hand up and realizes that water is running in rivulets down her neck. His eyes follow the tiny stream that trickles down into the valley between her breasts and she sees it, the way he blinks deliberately, and she grows warm.

They work together to remove her hairpins and he gathers her mane in the towel, carefully wringing it out. He fingers her damp tresses. "Better," he rumbles with a minute nod of his head, placing the towel over the back of a nearby chair. He steps close again and she finds herself once more gazing into his dark eyes, fascinated. She wonders, for an instant, if he thinks her foolish for getting caught up in him this way. And then his lips descend upon hers and she decides she does not care. The force of his kiss surprises her and she mewls into his mouth, the sound not unlike the one she made the very first time their lips touched.

He tips her head back, his lips blessing the column of her throat. His tongue darts out to capture the droplets of water that have pooled in the hollows of her collarbones and her hands wind their way into his hair, fingertips trailing over the nape of his neck, palms flattening against his strong shoulders. His vest is damp and she frowns.

"This needs to come off," she insists, fingering the soggy fabric.

What happens next knocks the breath out of her lungs. He meets her eyes with a look that has but one interpretation. He of guarded heart and finely-honed self-control is placing that tender heart, along with his dignity, in her hands.

"Raise your arms," she says gently, lifting the hem. He complies and bows his head, and she removes the sodden garment, tossing it on top of the towel.

"There," she declares, satisfied. She presses her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat, sucking at the skin, and when she looks up at him again she reads gratitude in his eyes, relief. It astounds her to know that she holds such sway over him, but she offers up silent thanks for the fact that the privilege of safeguarding his heart is hers and hers alone.

Her approval must be precisely what he needs, because now he is lifting the hem of her chemise, tossing it carelessly onto the floor, and this time she does laugh as he lifts her off her feet, depositing her on the bed and swiftly coming to lie beside her. There is a harsh clap of thunder and the flash of lightning that follows casts a brighter light than the noonday sun, but this discharge of energy in the heavens is no match for the arcing of current between the man and his wife.

Hands roam insistently, wordless gasps direct and encourage, and lips trail across heated skin as they give and take, all culminating in a chorus of "I love you … I never thought it could be this way. I _**love**_ you."

She brings him down upon her after, and if he fears crushing her under his weight he doesn't express it, not this time. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, pressing his lips to impossibly soft skin and whispering his love to her. She groans when his body slips from hers, but he kisses her quiet.

"None of that, now," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere." He lies on his side facing her and gathers her against him, pulling the sheet over their cooling skin. She insinuates a leg between both of his and his hand comes to rest on her hip.

She traces the tip of her index finger over his throat and down the center of his chest, and then her palm comes to rest over his heart. "I don't know what came over you today," she says with a grin, "but whatever it was, you'll hear no complaints from me!" And she kisses him soundly, treasuring the moan that escapes from his lips into her mouth.

He raises up on an elbow to look at her and grins. "I find I rather enjoy you … undone," he admits sheepishly. "It felt as if I caught a glimpse of the wild Scottish farmgirl for a moment and I'm not ashamed to say I found it most enticing."

It is then that she remembers why she went to church today. As she snuggles into his side and their eyelids grow heavy, she thanks God for choosing _her_ to love _this man_ , who is more than the butler of Downton Abbey, who is arresting in his tenderness beneath that stern exterior. Who loves her wholeheartedly and trusts her implicitly, and who _dreams_ of her, of the girl she was.

And his heart is hers to cherish.

* * *

 **Please feel free to send me suggestions! What would you like to see in this series? I enjoy a good challenge. xx**


	10. X

**A/N: I'm back. Depression, anxiety, examination of priorities all amounted to a few weeks away, and my word but were they necessary! I began writing again close to two weeks ago, dribs and drabs, and that seems to be how I can work for the time being.**

 **There've been some brilliant responses to the chesie-prompts' "Whiskers." Here is my take.**

 **Thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for super-fast beta and a massive boost of confidence. To Mistressdickens and brenna-louise for moral support ... hugs to you, my three amigas!**

 **I hope to have a special Mother's Day installment of this fic ready in time for, well, Mother's Day.**

 **Until then, hope you enjoy! Reviews are a treat.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **18\. Whiskers**

It's an odd predicament she finds herself in. Definitely not a scenario she would ever have imagined. She stands before the mirror trying to determine whether there is anything she can do to draw focus elsewhere.

The brooch! The amethyst brooch that had been Mam's will go well with the blouse she wears. She pins it in place, adjusts her hat, and juts her chin forward as she analyzes her image. She shrugs. Perhaps a bit more powder? No, that doesn't help at all.

She glances at the clock. Well, there's no use worrying about it now. If she doesn't leave straightaway, she'll be late. She makes her way downstairs and spies Charles asleep on the sofa. She picks the newspaper up off his chest and folds it, then stands back to look at him. She can't help smiling at the vision he presents, and she doesn't think she'll ever tire of watching him sleep. When he is at peace like this there is an almost boyish quality to his features, and that unruly curl that flops over his forehead just begs to be smoothed back into place. So she does just that, and while she's at it she presses a kiss to his cheek. And that's when she remembers her conundrum.

He looks so dashing with a day's worth of stubble on his face. It's one of the ways in which Charles, the husband, has begun to relinquish the exacting standards of Carson, the butler. And she's glad that he's beginning to feel comfortable enough in her presence to allow her to see him untucked and a bit disheveled at times.

She adores the look of a day's growth on him. The feel of it, however, is another matter entirely.

She can't bear to wake him. He knows she's going out, but she still pens a quick note and leaves it by the kettle, for she knows that's the first place he'll look when he rouses. She leaves a plate of biscuits for him as well, the apricot shortbread he fancies. She loves being his wife and the opportunities it buys her to do for him in these little ways. She's always heard that men are oblivious to subtlety, but not her husband. Her efforts to please him are always noticed. Perhaps not always appreciated - though he _has_ definitely grown more tactful since the early days of criticizing her cooking - but most certainly always noticed.

She smiles brightly when Isobel opens the door. The time they spend together is one of the highlights of Elsie's week. They fill a void in one another's lives, and if Elsie had known how close they would become she would have warmed sooner to Isobel's overtures of friendship.

"Elsie! Wonderful to see you. Come in, come in!" Isobel greets her with an embrace, kissing her cheek.

Elsie returns the gesture. "So good to be here, Isobel! Thank you for hosting today."

"But of course! It gave me an excuse to do some baking. So tell me, how are you?" Isobel pauses, holding Elsie out at arm's length to get a good look at her. "Are you quite well? You look a bit … flushed."

Elsie looks down for a moment, biting her lip. Her eyes meet Isobel's with a combination of embarrassment and amusement, bordering on mischief. "Not so much flushed as … _abraded_ ," she offers. "Can we sit?"

Isobel's eyes widen momentarily. _Abraded?_ Oh, this should be interesting. "Of course. Here, would you carry these?" Isobel hands Elsie a plate of scones. "And I'll get the tea, and let's go to the sitting room."

Elsie takes up her favorite armchair and Isobel the adjacent corner of the sofa. The tea is poured, the scones sampled ("Och! These are outstanding, Isobel! I must have the recipe!" Elsie gushes.) and Isobel waits. And waits. At last she clears her throat. "You know you can't drop a bombshell like that and expect my curiosity won't be piqued! Out with it, Elsie."

Elsie rolls her eyes and sighs. "I should know better than to think I can put anything past you." They share a knowing look and she continues. "Charles is growing more comfortable with me, less formal, and it's … it's lovely. You know what I mean … the little things I never got to see all those years. I knew there was more to him than the butler of Downton Abbey but it's one thing to know it, and another thing altogether to see it firsthand." She smiles as she thinks of her husband.

As Isobel takes note of the wistful look on the face of her friend she knows exactly what Elsie means. It still thrills her to see Richard in shirtsleeves, spectacles perched on the end of his nose as he reads the paper, or asleep in his armchair with the pup in his lap. "It is incredible that they trust us enough to let us see them as they really are," Isobel agrees. "Somehow I don't think you've told me everything, though. Why do I sense there's a 'but' coming?"

Elsie sighs again. "Because you know me well. I really do enjoy the softer side of Charles … it's just that sometimes he goes a day or two without shaving and it looks quite fetching, but it hurts … ehrm … when he kisses me."

"Oh! Doesn't it, though?" Her friend agrees and Elsie is put at ease. Isobel continues. "It's rather like being kissed by a porcupine!"

The two of them fall into a fit of giggles and it's some time before they recover. Count on Isobel to lighten the atmosphere!

"Ohh," Elsie sighs as she catches her breath, "so you know the feeling? Listen to me … of course you do! Not that I've any experience with this sort of thing myself, but I imagine Richard's mustache must present a challenge."

"Oddly enough, it doesn't chafe, which was surprising to me as I'd always believed it would." Isobel is so matter-of-fact that she doesn't realize the truth she's just revealed. But Elsie can't let it pass without mention.

"You'd ' _always believed?!_ ' Just how long, pray tell, did you contemplate the logistics of kissing him, Isobel?"

Isobel pulls a face at her friend. "Never you mind, Elsie Carson! Certainly not as long as you thought about kissing that sour expression off the face of the tight-lipped butler!" Another round of laughter ensues, and Elsie thinks she should've come to Isobel sooner with this problem, if for no other reason than comic relief.

Isobel returns to her thought. "No, the mustache … limits, to a degree, the manner in which I can kiss him, but that's neither here nor there."

Elsie disagrees. "You said, and I quote, 'you can't drop a bombshell like that and expect my curiosity won't be piqued.' You can't tell only half the story, my friend."

Isobel makes a show of rolling her eyes, but in truth she loves the banter between herself and Elsie. Never has she had a friendship like the one they share. "We're talking about _you_ , madam. But if you must know, I've become most fond of his bottom lip. There's more … surface area, if you will. There. I've said it. Satisfied?"

"You've solved one of life's great mysteries," Elsie teases. "But back to the stubble … you find it bothersome too?"

"Most irritatingly so. It burns like fire, doesn't it? Richard doesn't let it go all that often, thankfully, but when he does I simply won't allow him near my face!"

Elsie looks at the other woman with astonishment. "Now that I don't believe! I've seen the two of you … stuck to one another like a stamp to a letter. There is no convincing me that you keep Richard at arms' length when he's not clean-shaven."

"You're one to talk! I would swear that the coining of the phrase, 'keep your hands to yourself,' was in honor of you and Charles! Besides, I only said that I don't allow him near my _face_. There are other … locations … that register the sensation quite differently."

Isobel anticipates both her friend's wide-eyed expression _and_ the moment it changes to one of curiosity. She knows that Elsie isn't sure what questions to ask, so she cuts through all the pretense and gets right to the heart of the matter.

This is where Elsie benefits from Isobel's forthrightness, and from the fact that she and Richard have been married two and a half years to her own and Charles' six months. When teatime is over, Elsie goes home to her husband with an altogether new appreciation for his scruff.

She doesn't have to wait long to put her newfound knowledge to good use. When supper is over, Elsie washes the dishes and Charles dries. She is charmed by that, one of many little concessions he has made in order to be close to her. He could demand that she do it all herself, in addition to the cooking, and be well within his rights to do so, but that's not the man he is. She is thinking these thoughts as he reaches around her to place dishes in the cupboard, and that's when she feels it: his lips on the back of her neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed, prickly kisses. And the sensation is altogether marvelous.

"Do it again," she says breathily, and gooseflesh rises on her skin as she waits.

He does. How can it be that this feeling is so different to the raw scrape of those same whiskers across her face?

"Charles," she whispers, "take me to bed."

When his eyes meet hers she can see the smile in them. He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing the back of it. This, too, is a pleasant feeling. In fact, it conjures up a memory that makes her laugh.

"What is it?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. She reaches out to trace it with the pad of her thumb, smoothing it back down.

She's still grinning. "It's only that when you kissed my hand, the feel of your whiskers put me in mind of the way it felt when the horses ate sugar cubes out of my hand."

He scowls, and it almost looks as though he's going to pout. "Not the most flattering comparison. Shall I go shave?" He makes to step away but she halts him, her small hand squeezing his forearm.

"No. It was just a moment of girlish fancy. You look ever so dashing with a day's growth." She reaches up to run her fingers over his chin, the line of his jaw. "So long as you keep it away from my face."

There's the frown again. "It causes you discomfort?" He looks mortified by the thought.

"Charles, don't," she soothes. He searches her eyes and she knows she must be truthful but exceedingly cautious. "When we kiss and you haven't shaven, it's a bit … abrasive." He hangs his head but she catches his chin in her hand. She makes certain he's looking at her. "But there are plenty of places you can kiss me besides my face. Now, I believe you were going to take me upstairs." And she lifts her skirt with determination, walking past him and up the stairs, leaving him gaping at her in amazement. By the time he gets to the bedroom she has stepped out of her skirt and is working loose the buttons of her blouse.

He comes to stand in front of her, taking her hands in his own. "Would you slow down? Let me."

He finishes undressing her and lays her down. His lips ghost over her throat and they discover that if he is gentle, the effect is quite pleasurable. When his stubble brushes across her collarbones, she gasps with delight. He moves lower, blessing her breasts, her belly with delicious sensations, and lower still, encouraged by her cries of his name and "Don't stop" and "I love you."

Married life, as it turns out, is all about accommodation and learning to see what might appear, at first blush, to be imperfections as opportunities for great adventure.


	11. XI

**A/N: In honor of Mother's Day, my take on how my favorite of the Downton mamas came to motherhood.**

 *****There are some descriptions of labor. Nothing graphic at all, just a portrayal based upon some of the finer(?) points of my three deliveries.*****

 **Thanks as ever to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for beta ... and trading birth stories!**

 **Reviews are a treat. Thank you all and look forward to a Chelsie update very soon!**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **19\. Prediction**

She wakes early, well before sunrise, just as she had guessed she would. Rolling over, she kisses Richard's shoulder blade, wrapping her arm around his midsection. They've spoken about this, that he wants to know when she can't sleep, and she honors his request.

Her touch awakens him and he turns toward her as he blinks back sleep.

"Isobel?" he mutters. "All right?"

"Yes," she replies. "Hold me?"

"Of course." He draws her into a warm embrace, pressing kisses to her hairline as he comes to his senses. She relishes the contact, humming her appreciation.

A few minutes pass and he raises up on an elbow to look at her, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm fine, Richard, only … he'd be forty years old today. I truly am all right, as much as one can be, but I can't just lie here and I knew you'd want to know."

"I'll get up with you if you want." He traces the contour of her cheekbone with his thumb and she leans into his touch, kissing the center of his palm.

"No, please … It's only just gone four. I'll come back to bed in a bit. I think I'll sip tea and … gather wool for a while."

"If you're sure," he concedes. He rubs his knuckles down the length of her spine and she snuggles closer for a moment.

She presses a lingering kiss to his lips. "I'll be back soon, darling man." He watches as she rises from the bed, as she wraps herself in _his_ dressing gown. At this he grins and shakes his head. She has several of her own in beautiful silks and satins, yet his worn, black watch plaid is the one she always reaches for.

She makes her way downstairs, setting a few more logs on the fire while the kettle boils. A few minutes later, teacup in hand, she settles into her favorite corner of the sofa and her mind begins to wander.

 **oOo**

 **2 March, 1885**

 _Isobel Crawley awoke with a start. The previous evening she'd experienced a persistent, dull ache in her lower back. She had informed Reginald straightaway and he'd sent her to bed with a hot water bottle and instructions to sleep as much as she was able; labor would likely be starting soon._

 _Her back pain grew sharper as the minutes wore on, radiating through her hips and wrapping around her abdomen. She sat up gingerly, a moan escaping her lips at the pain brought on by the change in position. She had intended to wake her husband gently, but he'd heard her cry out and had been instantly alert._

" _Izzy?" Reginald kissed her temple, noting the fine sheen of perspiration there._

" _Reggie, it's started. I know I need to rest while I can, but … Hold me?"_

" _Let's get you comfortable, precious," he said as he sat back against the headboard and helped her to scoot between his legs and lean back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, settling his hands on her abdomen and feeling the muscles tighten beneath his fingertips. "Is this the first one you're aware of?"_

 _She shook her head, moving her hands atop his. "Second, I think. The first was … twenty minutes ago. Perhaps twenty-five." She gasped and he felt her abdomen harden further._

" _That's a good, strong contraction," he observed. "How painful?"_

" _It's not unbearable. Not unless I try to move. Just uncomfortable. The lower back is the worst so far."_

" _All right," he said, "we should discuss now what's going to take place. As difficult as it was, our past should cause you to progress more swiftly at first. It's still our first term delivery, so I'd be surprised if it happened today. You don't think your water has broken?"_

" _No," she answered. "I remember that."_

 _This was spoken quietly, with resignation. She was just twenty-three years old, but already they had come to know the heartbreak of pregnancy loss. They'd been married six months at the time, Isobel four months gone when she miscarried. She'd nearly bled to death, saved by Reginald's transfusing her with her mother's blood. A year passed, and with it came another miscarriage, this time at ten weeks. When she'd fallen pregnant a third time they spent the first months in abject fear, but this had proven to be a textbook pregnancy and she had carried to nearly thirty-nine weeks. All that remained between them and their dream of starting a family was a safe delivery._

" _Izzy—" Reginald interrupted her train of thought._

" _Reggie, I know you don't want me worrying, but we have to talk about it. Don't tell me you're not frightened."_

" _Of course I am, Isobel, but we've every reason in the world to believe this will be a routine delivery. If I allowed myself to worry, precious—"_

 _She moved carefully, looking back over her shoulder at him and reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand. "I know, my love. I know you feel you have to be strong for me, but I need you to be honest. Reg, if there's a choice to be made, my life or the baby's, I need to know you'll save the baby."_

" _Isobel," he said firmly, "that is not an outcome we will have to face." The physician in him warred with the husband and he felt the sag of her shoulders against him. He amended his statement. "But I know your wishes and I promise to honor them in the event …"_

 _He couldn't finish and it didn't matter. She turned her face toward him and kissed him as best she could in that awkward position. "I'm sorry, love. We needn't discuss it any further. Will you lie down with me?"_

 _He smiled. "Always." And he helped her to lie down on her side, placing a pillow between her knees before curling his body around hers from behind._

 _She sighed. "Mmmm, you're warm. Feels good." He kneaded her lower back and she breathed deeply._

" _We'll do all we can to keep you comfortable," he assured as he pressed kisses to the back of her neck. "And assuming there are no complications, I'd like to abide by your wishes. You're the one giving birth, and you know as much as I do."_

 _Isobel smiled. Reginald Crawley was a giant among men. He had known her since she was a slip of a girl, fourteen years old and assisting with clerical duties in her father's medical practice, wherein he apprenticed. She had been a pretty little thing then and had grown into a beautiful young woman, but what attracted him to her was her determination. As soon as she finished her studies, she'd asked to go to London to train as a nurse, and her father had obliged unwaveringly. Upon her return she had jumped in with both feet, working tirelessly alongside Reginald, her father, and her brother, Edward, and the three men found her absolutely essential to the success of their practice. The only thing that separated Isobel from the rest of them was the fact that medical credentials were not conferred upon women._

 _It was this kind of woman Reginald longed to have by his side, and John Turnbull had not been surprised in the least when his protégé had asked for permission to court his only daughter. The two were wed when Isobel was just nineteen, but she possessed a maturity well beyond her years and Reginald knew that in Isobel he had found his equal._

 _And now here she was, about to give birth to their own long-awaited child. As husband and wife rested, gathering strength for what was to come, Reginald listened to Isobel's wishes._

" _I'll want Mum here when the pain increases," she said, rubbing her abdomen. "But you know that as soon as she finds out, Daddy will know, and then Eddie will know. And Reg, I love my father and brother, but I can't abide those two in my delivery room. It's all a bit … much for a woman's male relatives to see."_

 _The pair of them laughed, and Reginald was gratified when he felt the baby move. "Between your mother and me, we'll handle both Doctors Turnbull, dear one. Sleep now. I'm here."_

 _And she did. In the arms of her husband, Isobel dreamt of their child, a dream more vivid than any she'd ever had. She saw his face. Him. Their baby. She saw his birth, watched him being laid in her arms. She knew these images would carry her through the difficult hours to come._

 _And difficult they were, indeed. Isobel woke as a guttural moan was torn from her throat and suddenly all she knew was pain, intensifying, making her bend double in the bed. She wanted to cry out for her husband but her lips would not make the sound. It was no matter; he was there._

" _Izzy, love, it's all right," he soothed, wrapping his arm around her. "Keep breathing. It will subside in a moment." She reached for his hand, squeezing it until the contraction was over._

" _I can't lie here, Reg. This back pain! I need to get up."_

" _I know, sweetheart. We'll get you up and walking, and I'll fetch your mum. Come now."_

 _Very carefully, Reginald helped Isobel to her feet and walked the length of the corridor with her. As another contraction hit she leaned against him. He drew her into his arms, situating her own around his neck, and pressed his thumbs into the indentations at the base of her spine. Relief was immediate and she nodded her thanks, unable to speak. When the wave of pain receded, she relaxed into him._

 _Between contractions he collected her mother from next door. Fiona Turnbull was the embodiment of calm and her presence instantly put her daughter at ease. She and Isobel passed most of the afternoon and evening walking the corridor. Contractions came steadily, but progression was slower than Isobel thought it should be. Her mother convinced her to let Reginald check her progress and held her hand as he did so. The examination was painful and, though Isobel was stoic, tears escaped her eyes unbidden. The news was discouraging: the baby was head-down, engaged in the birth canal, but its skull was pressing against Isobel's spine. A face-up presentation always resulted in intense back pain and practically guaranteed protracted labor. Isobel could still deliver safely, but she was in for a long fight._

 _Reginald and Fiona took the overnight in turns. Contractions had slowed again and Isobel was exhausted but restless. She finally found sleep in the arms of her mother, as Fiona mopped her daughter's brow and sang the Psalms in Gaelic as she'd done when Isobel was a child._

 _When next Isobel woke, it was because her water had broken. Her contractions intensified again, coming closer together until it was difficult to discern the end of one from the beginning of the next. Back labor had her writhing in agony, and soon the crest of each contraction sent her retching. She knew that this was transition, that much progress was being made and that she was inching closer to holding her baby - her son - in her arms. But she couldn't catch a breath, and she felt completely at the mercy of her own body. Her husband and mother helped her onto her hands and knees, which served to ease the pressure on her back slightly. As each wave of pain reached its peak, Fiona twisted her fist into the base of Isobel's spine, applying counterpressure which would have been painful under any other circumstances, but in this instance it spelled sweet relief._

 _At long last, Isobel uttered the words they'd all been waiting to hear. "Reggie, I have to push. I can't help it." He knew that she knew her body, and that it was well and truly time if she said it was._

 _Reginald and Fiona helped her back into bed. "On the next contraction, Izzy. Gently at first, all right?" the physician directed, kissing her forehead. Then the husband took over. "We're going to meet our baby, sweetheart! What do you think we're having?" He held her hand and smoothed her hair and she smiled at him._

" _It's a boy," she said, full of certainty. "I had a dream. I know what his face looks like. You're going to have a son!" She cupped his cheek in her hand and kissed him._

 _The next contraction came and Isobel could not resist bearing down, riding out the crest of it until it subsided. In the trough she caught her breath and steeled herself for the one to come._

 _This was all well and good for an hour and a half, but when all of her efforts had not yet brought forth a baby she grew exhausted and discouraged. She slept for twenty minutes and was then able to push for another half hour, but still it seemed to no avail. She was tired; the pain was agonizing. She was trying her damndest to give her husband his son and it wasn't happening!_

 _Her body forbade her from refusing to push despite her exhaustion, but she sobbed. "Dear God, make it stop! Please, make it stop. I ca— … I_ can't _!"_

 _To this point, Fiona had acted in the capacity of comforter, but upon hearing Isobel's words she transformed instantly into the role of mother, getting right in her daughter's face._

" _ **Isobel Fiona, you look at me**_ _," she ordered. Isobel complied, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I have never once heard you say you can't do something. You can, and you must, and you will deliver this baby! There is nothing you are incapable of. I survived and so will you. Now you're going to sit up, and I'm going to hold you, and you're going to push. Do I make myself clear?"_

 _Those words did it for Isobel, and Fiona grinned as she saw the lifted chin and the look of defiance on her daughter's face. They were inseparably close, but Isobel had never taken kindly to being put in her place._

" _I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," Fiona prodded when Isobel didn't answer._

" _Yes, Mother," Isobel hissed, fire in her eyes._

" _That's a good girl," Fiona replied, and she helped her daughter to sit up, situating herself at the head of the bed. Isobel lay back against her mother. "Now," said Fiona, "give it all you've got. You know you never do anything by halves."_

 _Isobel was furious now, but it was precisely what she needed. With the next contraction she pushed so hard she was certain her body would split in half. "Jesus, Mumma, it_ _ **hurts**_ _," she cried._

" _Of course it does, love. Means you're doing it right. And you can't stop now. Go again. Do it."_

 _Isobel groaned in exasperation and bore down again._

" _I can see the head, Izzy! It's right here," Reginald cried, and Isobel looked up at her mother with a smile on her swollen, tired face._

" _I told you," Fiona said softly, smoothing her daughter's cheek._

" _How you love to be right," Isobel replied, and despite the immense pain she was in, she and Fiona shared a chuckle._

" _Where do you think you got it from, a leanabh? Now, go again."_

 _And on the next push, the baby's head was delivered. Reginald actually had to direct his wife to push with less force at that point so that she wouldn't tear._

 _Two more small pushes, and Isobel felt relief the likes of which she never had before. She gave a triumphant cry as Reginald announced, "It's a boy, Izzy! You did it!"_

" _Oh, my God! Give him here!" she exclaimed, and Reginald laid the wet, squirming mess that was their son on her chest. "Oh, look at you," she sobbed. "Hello, precious boy! I'm your mumma! I've been waiting such a very long time for you."_

 _She looked up at her husband and their eyes locked on one another._ Watch him _, Reginald said without speaking._

 _Isobel nodded, rubbing the baby's body vigorously. "Come on, love … come on, little one," she murmured, glancing back and forth from her husband to their son. She continued her ministrations and after what seemed like an eternity he drew breath and uttered his first cry._

" _That's my boy," Isobel cried, "that's my son!" And the world faded away. She vaguely registered her mother and husband directing her through the delivery of the afterbirth, but if there was supposed to be pain she didn't feel it. If she were bleeding to death, she couldn't have cared less. She figured she had fallen in love for the one and only time in her life when she fell for Reginald, but as she took in the tiny wonder she had birthed, her heart swelled until she was sure it would burst._ How can I be so in love with someone I've only just met? _she wondered._

 _She guessed she must have survived when Reginald came to stand by her side, and as she gazed up at him she was awestruck by the look in his eyes._

" _Oh, beautiful," he said raptly, "you've done it! Our son is here. I love you, Isobel. I love you so much, my brave, beautiful girl." She drew him down with a hand at the nape of his neck and kissed him._

" _I love you," she whispered. "Would you look at him? I can't believe he's here, Reggie! Our son!"_

" _You were right," he said. "Our son. Our Matthew."_

 _She nodded, palming his cheek. "Matthew Reginald. I suppose he ought to meet his daddy now, hmm?"_

 _He chuckled, kissing her brow. "I'll clean him up and you can have him back. You did beautifully, Isobel. I've never been more proud of you. And I've never loved you more."_

 _And while Reginald weighed and measured and bathed his son, Fiona helped her daughter to clean up and settle back into bed._

" _Mumma," Isobel whispered, "thank you." As their eyes met, both women burst into tears and Fiona took Isobel in her arms._

" _Oh, darling girl, I hope you can forgive me. I hate taking a hard line with you."_

" _No, no, Mum, don't apologize. I needed it, didn't I?" It was Isobel's turn to wipe away her mother's tears._

" _You always did." Fiona smiled and Isobel nodded. "But that doesn't mean I've ever enjoyed giving it to you."_

" _Well, it's made me who I am. I owe everything to you, Mum. I hope I'm half the mother you've been to Ed and me."_

 _Fiona kissed her daughter's cheek. "Oh,_ a leanabh _, you'll do just fine. Mothers are made one day at a time."_

 _Reginald returned with baby Matthew clean and swaddled, and Isobel's breath caught as she took in the sight of her husband and son together._

" _I'd say, 'give him back to me,' but I think he ought to meet his gran," she said with a smile as she looked from Reginald to her mother._

" _If you're sure," Fiona said, her heart bursting with pride for the strong, selfless daughter she'd raised._

" _I insist," Isobel replied. "You've waited for him nearly as long as we have."_

 _As grandmother and grandson spent their first moments together, Reginald crawled into bed with his wife, and no words were spoken. None were needed. They held each other and wept … for all they'd lost and all that they now beheld. Love was astounding in its ability to bind hearts, to mend old hurts, to multiply and expand, drawing individuals together as a family, spanning generations to create a whole greater than the sum of its parts._

 **oOo**

And that is what Isobel remembers today, on what would have been her son's fortieth birthday. _Love._ The head-over-heels, giddy sensation she had felt when she'd fallen for Reginald, the pride and protectiveness that had instantly filled her heart the first time she locked eyes with newborn Matthew. The devotion and gratitude she'd felt for her mother that day. All of them left their mark indelibly upon her heart, expanding her capacity to give and making her the woman she is today.

And that woman has been lucky enough to find great love once again. She smiles as she rises from the sofa, folds her afghan, returns the teacup to the kitchen. It is because of her love for Reginald, for Matthew, for her mother and father and brother - because she was loved and taught _to love_ well, that she fell in love with Richard.

She makes her way upstairs to their bedroom and pauses in the doorway to take in the sight of him. He is a beautiful man, and she takes a long moment to study his features in repose. And then she crawls beneath the covers and curls herself into him. He shifts in his sleep and his arms come around her, and as she drifts off she says a silent prayer of thanks for all the opportunities life has presented her to love and be loved in return.


End file.
